


Death of the Wolf-Runner

by AuthorDude99



Series: The Saga of Skathi Wolf-Runner [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon-atypical violence, Fantasy, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:55:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 25
Words: 143,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26216008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthorDude99/pseuds/AuthorDude99
Summary: The night was never safe for the folk of Skyrim. Now, it's become fatal. The Volkihar Vampire Clan has reemerged, and the Dawnguard has risen to meet it. Meanwhile, a soldier prepares to return to war for the things she loves. An vengeful woman goes to wreak havoc on the province. A thief returns to her old ways. A drunkard finally wakes up to the world. And a cursed woman tries to escape her destiny and fails.
Relationships: Mjoll the Lioness/Original Character(s)
Series: The Saga of Skathi Wolf-Runner [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594060





	1. Chapter 1

Once again, Agata entered this damned house. She didn’t want to be here. This was the worst place she’d ever known, but it was where she was forced to be. Her will was not her own. She didn’t want any more of this, especially what was surely to come. It was out of fear of reprisal that kept her coming back, for who in their right mind crosses a Daedric Prince?

See, Agata chose to lend her axe to a Vigilant of Stendarr search an abandoned house for possible Daedric activity. At worst, they were expecting necromancers, but it turned out there was a shrine to Molag Bal, Daedric Prince of Domination, under the house. And his presence here was strong enough to drive the Vigilant mad and have him try to kill Agata, but her axe was faster.

And now, Agata was forced to do Molag’s deeds. At first, she denied his authority, but arguing led to her hand, axe in hand, held close to her throat by a hand that wasn’t even there. She was not about die by her own hand, so she was tasked to find a priest another Daedric Prince that defile this shrine. And so, he was brought here to face the King of Rape’s judgement.

These things were not what Agata hoped out of life. The poor Nord hoped to become a trader, fall in love, raise a family, and live in wealth until death of old age. That would never happen. Her parents were charged with killing one of the Jarl’s men and put to death, even though they didn’t lay a finger on that man. She was just a teenager, and with no family left, was forced to wander Skyrim for jobs. She took what she could and spent when she needed. Chopping wood, mercenary work, couriering. It was all the same to her.

But now this. This was not the same to her.

She led the priest, Logrolf the Willful, into the house. He had earned that title for his attitude, one that smirks at the thought of defiling an altar. All the way here, he snarked her and Molag Bal to no end, but perhaps a horse throat. It was quite insulting and won’t be repeated here. His chosen god, Boethiah, wasn’t a lucky prince for such an ass of a following.

Through the house, Agata was on edge. She had not so easily forgotten what happened here. Her axe she kept on her belt, trying to keep it from flying out and slitting her throat, should the mood strike it. Of course, it was unlikely to happen, but try telling that to her with what she’s been through.

The poor Nord led Logrolf deep into the house. When she brought him into the basement and no shrine to be seen, he had this smug look. Then he was led to the crack in the wall and he grumbled. Deeper than the foundations of the house, he was brought to a shrine of black steel sharpened like the slightest touch would break your skin.

The willful priest marched over to the shrine, taking the need for Agata to coax him. His prideful approach was shattered when four claws of the same make as the altar jutted out and surrounded him in a grasp of death. He went from bold to cowering in the time it takes to blink. It was much like her first effort here, but she was just trying to examine the altar.

“Molag Bal,” Logrolf said through audibly grit teeth, “You think you can best Boethiah's faithful? I have won this contest before!"

“Ah,” an evil voice slithered from the altar, “But I have my own champion this time, Logrolf.”

“What?” the priest gasped and turned to look upon Agata, “You!”

The poor Nord was shocked. She was only doing this at Molag’s orders, not that she wished to harm his enemies. It was sure that both of them believed she would serve the Father of Coldharbour, but she was ready to bolt at this moment.

“Mortal,” Molag Bal commanded, “I give you my mace, in all its rusted spitefulness. Crush the spirit from Logrolf's bones. Make him bend to me.”

And in her hand was the Mace of Molag Bal. When she first came upon it, it was a rusted piece of metal on its master’s altar. She didn’t take it from its altar, but here it was. She tried to toss it aside, but it stuck to hand like it was merged to her skin. And just like it was merged to her skin, its weight pulled her arm to the ground and it tugged at screaming flesh in pain.

With the knowledge she couldn’t win this, Agata submitted her fate. She raised the mace to the roof and brought it onto Logrolf’s back with closed eyes. It scraped against the claws, producing a screech of metal as its victim made a screech of pain. Despite this crippling wound, he didn’t speak a word. It keep his pain at bay, she brought the mace upon his head, killing him instantly.

She breathed a sigh of relief. Surely, Molag was done with him. A dead man was hard to torment.

And then a vicious laugh emerged from the altar. “You mortals and your frail, limp, pathetic bodies,” Molag Bal remarked, “Try it again.”

And as fast as he fell, the light returned to Logrolf, despite his wounds remaining. His fire wasn’t there, replaced with pure horror that match Agata’s own. She didn’t intend to further torment him, but it was either him or her, and she wasn’t ready to submit herself to Molag Bal’s wraith. So, she struck again, breaking his arm upon the claws.

He screamed, “I’ll never submit!” with blood on his cheek and the mace hovering above him.

And so, Agata smashed the mace upon his chest only protect by his robes. It killed him instantly. When the last life escape his form again, it was brought right back again. He face went from barely guarded horror to unguard pain. Dammit, you stubborn bastard, Agata screamed from within, die!

As the poor Nord prepared to smash his legs, Logrolf panted, “No more, no more,” his strength enough to get these words out, if nothing else, “I submit, Molag Bal. I submit.”

“You bend to me?” the Prince propped.

The priest stood up as best he could and gave a bow made sloppy by his injuries and fear. “Yes!” he proclaimed in a shaky voice.

“You pledge your soul to me?”

“Yes!”

“You forsake the weak and pitiful Boethiah?”

The priest took a moment to answer, “Yes!”

“You're mine now, Logrolf,” Molag Bal said with an invisible smile. Agata was only glad it was over.

“Kill him.”

On instinct, Agata’s fear guided her to smash the mace on the priest’s neck so hard, his head broke off. She was shock how fast she took to do this. Was her fear that strong? It was, lest she face Molag Bal’s wrath.

In her hand, the mace’s rust crumbled away to reveal black steel much like the altar’s design. “The Mace of Molag Bal!” its master proclaimed, “I give you its true power, mortal. When your enemies lie broken and bloody before you, know that I will be watching.”  
Agata gasped. “No,” she almost whispered, “I won’t take this mace.”

The room grew silent. “Very well then,” Molag Bal’s voice replied, “You should know your place, as a mortal, but I will let it go. I could send another champion to kill you, but I won’t.”

Agata was wary. No relief for his words, as they surely hid another motive. “What do you want of me instead?” she asked.

“You will kill your sister.”

That almost made Agata laugh. She had no sister. All her family was dead. “You ask of me what doesn’t exist!” she fearfully chuckled.

“You may not know her,” Molag Bal explained, “but you will find her, and you will kill her.”

Agata threw the mace aside and bolted. The possibilities of what he meant were chilling. Would she grow close to someone as though a sister and she would need to kill her? Did her father have a bastard child? Would she simply kill another Nord woman? Whatever the fate, she couldn’t bear to face it.

The Vigilants of Stendarr were a group dedicated to fighting Daedric efforts in the mortal realm. Her best bet to survive this was with them. She may meet her fate there, but it was better than to do nothing. Anything was better than accepting such a fate.

* * *

“Wake up!” said a strict voice, “That's right, it's time to wake up, you drunken blasphemer!”

Jeanne wasn’t too pleased to hear this. Her head felt like a broken leg with pins and needles in it. It made sense, given last she remembered, she was engaged in a drinking contest. Such a novelty for her, drinking for a reason other than getting drunk. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to accept the challenge of a stranger, but it wasn’t like she was disuse to making stupidly dangerous decisions.

The drunk picked herself up and forced her eyes to open to see where exactly she found herself. Before her was a priestess, judging from the orange robes. Both were in a stone room with red banners and a baptismal at the center. Across were stone tables with dishes and offerings atop them. But what Jeanne took most note of was the statues of scantily clad woman with a flower raised to the sky.

Jeanne cursed herself. She was in a temple of Dibella. Of all the gods, what did it have to be the one so oppositely similar to Mara, Jeanne’s idol? Some Mara worshippers don’t talk to you for going into these things.

“Blasphemer?” Jeanne repeated the priestess’s insult. Maybe in it would be some saving grace to prove she was far from a Dibellan worshipper.

The priestess frowned. “I see,” she spat, “So, you don't remember fondling the statuary, then?”

This news was fantastic, but little comfort to Jeanne’s headache. “Uh, my head,” she groaned.

“Yes. Your head hurts and you don't remember where you are,” the priestess snarked, “I'm guessing you also don't remember coming in here and blathering incoherently about marriage or a goat. Which means you don't remember losing your temper and throwing trash all over the temple.”

Jeanne was embarrassed at such disrespect as it set in. She was taught by her priests that Dibella’s love wasn’t a thing to be confused with Mara’s. Those that wish to find Dibella’s shouldn’t be unduly harassed by those seeking Mara’s. The congregates of their coven still felt distain for them, so maybe she was still under the popular opinion. Then again, if she were always going with the popular opinion, she’d never have joined the Stormcloaks, though that was debatably a mistake on her part.

“Was a man named Sam with me?” Jeanne sheepishly asked. Her drinking buddy was a Breton that called himself Sam Guevenne. Such a silly name, Sam. You’d never catch any self-respecting Breton of High Rock letting anyone use that name.

The priestess sighed. “Dibella teaches love and compassion,” she said as if to remind herself more than Jeanne, “but that doesn't mean we're just going to tell you what you want to know and let you walk away from this. Pick up your mess, then apologize, and if we think you're sincere we'll consider lending you aid.”

Jeanne accepted her punishment. It was a little difficult find the trash compared to the offerings in this little den of debauchery, but the trick became finding the things no one would use for any reason in a temple, never one of Dibella. A Giant’s toe and Hagraven feather you’d find in a rich alchemist’s den, not a temple. The bottles of wine fit the idea of Dibella worshippers, but Jeanne remembered a scandal about a Dibellan priest arriving drunk to mass, so she grabbed them.

Amongst the trash that clearly didn’t belong there was a note. On it was this:  
“We need the following to repair the broken staff:  
Giant's Toe  
Holy Water  
Hagraven Feathers  
-Sam.”

Jeanne remembered why she was in the drinking contest to begin with, beyond the chance to get drunk. Sam had offered up a staff if she should beat him. The staff itself wasn’t on her person, but the very last thing she remember was him giving it to her. Maybe after breaking it, he took it back and gave her list? That’s a fair bit of responsibility to give a drunk person.

Out of curiosity, Jeanne opened on of the wine bottle to sniff. Instead of a fruity aroma, she sniffed something closer to bath water. Considering the baptismal in the center of the room, it was altogether likely the bottle was empty beforehand. She may have even, in her drunken state, found her way to the temple for this exact reason, but got distracted. Why could Drunk Jeanne find her way to a source of holy water that didn’t make her feel unclean?

Jeanne sheepishly returned to the priestess, who hadn’t moved from her spot, probably judging her all the way. “I think I've picked up everything,” she stated.

“I suppose that'll do,” the priestess begrudgingly replied, “Dibella teaches up forgiveness, after all. Even for a drunk like you.”

Fair enough. “So, do you remember anything I said when I got here?” Jeanne asked. She had to make sure this was the only place she made a fool of herself.

“You were ranting when you got here but most of it was slurred,” the priestess recounted, “You did say something about Rorikstead. Maybe you should start there.”

Jeanne nodded and shamefully began to walk out of the temple. Besides the social faux pax of being here, the idea she had more places she had shamed herself was painful, especially if it was Rorikstead. She was instilled with a sense of proper behavior from her parents and growing up at all in the Hawksly court. While what she’d done might not make it to High Rock, and she may never return at the rate, she had proved herself a shameful drunk unworthy of her family’s name.

She stepped out of the temple and found even more of a reminder of her shame. This temple turned out to be in the city of Markarth, the Dwarven architecture a telltale sign. She remembered her retreat during the war, though it may have saved the Stormcloaks, was pointless. The city was taken at the Throat of the World, not the field of battle. Not an honorable method by Nordic standards, but they still had the city.

The city actually seemed thriving under the Stormcloak regime. The guards may not have the green cuirasses anymore, but where still doing their job like it was their own home. The townsfolk walked about, calm as clams, save for children running about like children do. Everything seemed a perfectly fine city. It was a twinge of solace for a guilty soul.

But what should’ve stood out in her mind first was the fact that she wasn’t even in the Reach last she checked. Before that contest, she was in Windhelm, the other side of the province! She had clearly had quite the adventure while intoxicated. She wondered where else she spread her drunken behavior. Divines above, more of her shame was evident to the whole of Skyrim!

As she walked the path to the gate, she came across a strange sight. A guard was asking a mercenary looking man about something that left a serious expression on the mercenary face. What was strange was demonic figure stood above them, paying close attention to their conversation. He only left when it discover Jeanne staring at it, at which point it bolted into the closest door.

What in Oblivion was in her drinks last night?

* * *

Never had an investigation proven so difficult as that of Grelod the Kind’s murder. Granted, Rena had no experience with detective work before coming to Riften, so she had to learn the techniques involved. And still, such a cesspool as this city was made it difficult to find evidence when it was worth quite a bit of gold to the right people. Even then, none proved as difficult to Rena as this one.

Grelod the Kind was the matron of Honorhall Orphanage and she deserved all if it by irony. Folk in town spoke of how cruel she was to the children there, working them to the bone, never allowing adoptions and being of such cheerless behavior. She had no friends, especially none of power, which made it both unsurprising and bizarre that no one came forth as witness to the murder. Not a single person was willing to say if they saw anything, just “She had it coming.”

Not like the cadaver had any telling evidence about it. There was a copy of The Pig Children, a bruise on her left shoulder and a slice to the throat. A simpleton would say it was done by an Orc, as that was the topic of the book, but that was unlikely; there were about as many Orcs in Riften as there were Snow Elves, and that was only a slight exaggeration. Likely, the book was a coincidence, an addition to Grelod’s own library, but they would need to see if what few Orcs lived here had any unique problem with her.

Wasn’t much, but Rena couldn’t let folk badmouth the Legion more than they already did.

Ever since Rena arrived in the city, the common folk were nothing if not pleased with their presence. Seeing as how it was a Stormcloak hold and weren’t even given the opportunity to fight back when their land was given away by Ulfric, it could be understood why. Rena wished they could trust her comrades more but understood she couldn’t change their minds easily. It was sad, and it made Rena desire to leave and return to fighting the Stormcloaks again.

To the best of her ability, Rena filled out the report, as barebones as it was. She knew the Legate wouldn’t be pleased with her lack of detail, but there wasn’t much to say, in all honesty. It might’ve been influenced with how her shift would be over the minute this report was filed, but there just wasn’t much to say until additional investigations were made, and protocol dictated officers made reports of their activities every day. Not a great situation, but the one she was in.

After filing the report, she changed into her civvies and went to The Bee and the Barb, the local inn. She tended to get less attention when she dressed in common clothes as opposed to her uniform. There were still some that recognized her, some that went up to her as part of being friendly, and still some that just wanted to harass and Imperial. She was quite sure she’d meet someone today.

And yes, there was someone.

“Drink up, my boy!” bellowed an old man in fine disheveled clothes, “Drink to those who have fallen! May their souls find their way to Sovngarde!”

This was Vulwulf Snow-Shod. He was a local landowner, so the Legion needing to treat him with respect while they were here, but that didn’t make him respectable. He was a local drunk and a dogmatic anti-Imperial. He’d give some sob story about a Stormcloak daughter being killed by an Imperial, but the detail always changed of how, so Rena viewed him as an idiot old man. How he was about to become the in-law to the Mede Dynasty was anyone’s guess.

“Take it easy, father,” begged the young man opposite him, “You're making a scene.”

The man was Asgeir Snow-Shod, son of Vulwulf. He was a business partner at the Black-Briar Meadery and a prominent member of the local nobility. He was engaged to be married to Vittoria Vici, the emperor’s own cousin. Rena was uncertain as to their relationship, but Asgeir seemed a handsome man, and the Snow-Shod family seemed to obscure to waste a marriage on if it was political. She wished them the best but was as invested in them as one would be in a particular cloud.

“I'll rest easy when we've driven every last Imperial pig back across the Jerall Mountains!” Vulwulf snarled, “Now, do me the honor I deserve as your father and drink up!”

“Yes, father,” Asgeir sighed.

It always bother Rena how every referred to Cyrodiil natives as Imperials. Granted, they had a history of having some of the most powerful empires in memory, but it defined them as much as the Nords were warriors and you don’t hear them called Barbarians. Perhaps it was how they were perceived. She always thought they should be called Cyrodiilic, not Imperial, but she couldn’t control what others called her race.

Rena took her drink of Black-Briar mead and an empty table. That’s when someone decided to take the other chair.

Ravani Faren, a Dunmer of some acclaim in the Legion, took the chair like they were friends. They weren’t, as Ravani always struck Rena as a roguish figure. She was the Stormcloak that betrayed them and fought for the Legion instead and getting to know her further made it clear she was only ever in anything except for herself. Rena didn’t like that sort of person, knowing them far too well in her homeland.

“So, what have you been doing?” Ravani asked.

Rena was incredulous as toward Ravani’s curiosity. “Grelod the Kind was murdered,” the Legionnaire explained, “I’ve started the investigation, but I can’t stay around to finish it.”

Ravani nodded. See, the two were in a similar situation. Rena was leaving Riften for Solitude in two days, while this was Ravani’s last day in the Legion. The two couldn’t stay for prolonged responsibilities, as they’d surely go their separate ways after this. Rena didn’t know why Ravani chose Riften as her last assignment, but she could guess the Dunmer was going to take advantage of Riften’s criminal underworld. Not that she had proof, just a feeling.

“You know,” Ravani remarked, “I could find the murderer for you.”

Rena gave a looked of incredulity. “Did they actually do anything?” she asked, “And how much would you want for it?”

Ravani shrugged. “They might’ve killed an old woman,” she guessed, “but I’m going to need a fair bit of Septims to tell if they killed someone as ironically named as Grelod the Kind.”

Rena couldn’t help but roll her eyes. She figured Ravani would try to milk the Legion for all they were worth. Last week, she asked to be transferred to Ivarstead. Well, she got it and was back in Riften within the week. A bizarre arrangement, as most stay longer than four days, but her excuse was that “She didn’t learn how to Thu’um.” It was as dumb as it sounded, but Rena was certain she did some sort of illicit activity in the meantime.

Rena drank her mead as quick as possible with getting drunk and got up to leave when Ravani asked, “Where’s your coin purse?”

Rena checked her belt and it was gone. She knew she paid the barkeep, so she didn’t leave it at home.

“Ravani!” she barked, certain she had something to do with it.

“Don’t look at me,” Ravani replied, “I didn’t do anything, but I do have a guess who did.”

Rena rolled her eyes. “Are they a friend?” she questioned.

“No,” Ravani replied, “but I’d sure like to know her better.”

* * *

Skathi sauntered into Whiterun, worn from travel and adventure. She had recently gone through a long and complicated series of events to finding an ancient Dwemer forge. It took her all over Skyrim to ruins high and low, fighting monsters and automatons left by the long dead, and it was something most people will never go through. To her, though, it was about the third time she gone through this sort of thing.

For the past month, Skathi had been trying to make something out of being an adventurer, like the Nord wanderers of old. She found herself going through caves and ruins with sword in hand, slaying monsters, and bandits for coin. To some, this is enough, but not for her. Killing things went from something that gave her pause for her own existence to a dull experience. The coin it gave her wasn’t enough to rouse her emotions.

From this latest adventure, she had a bow of bronze Dwemer workmanship called Zephyr. The bow was a gift from a ghost grateful for proving her life’s work to find the Dwemer forge, and the crown was the proof needed to prove the forge did exist. Skathi found the bow was perfect for her, and she figured the crown would be a nice gift to whoever gets crowned High King of Skyrim.

And that was another thing that was stagnant since the last month. The Stormcloak Rebellion was put on hold, thanks to the treaty. There were still dragons abound, even with Paarthurnax’s leadership and Skathi’s efforts. As such, Skyrim was still awkwardly divided. Everyone knew the war was going to resume, just not when.

In the meantime, Skathi would be trying to improve her situation. She had been seeking apprenticeship for smithing ever since she slew Alduin, but she found things were even harder since then. Training was expensive, especially with a student that was so old as her, even though she was just twenty-five autumns. The first birthday she celebrated in almost twelve years, maybe more, was spent trying learn smithing. At least the night was capped with apple pie and an Argonian Bloodwine.

Trying to find a trade proved difficult. The smithing was compounded by the heat, the hours and the possibility of burns was amongst the reasons she found it unappealing. Alchemy was a dull art for her, and the local alchemist’s lesson too advanced for her. Enchanting required an affinity for magic, which she didn’t have. Hunting has animals you’re not allowed to hunt, and the animals you are allow to aren’t worth the coin, even if the soul gem market might be a decent investment. Cooking, well, she was alright at cooking for herself, but felt no desire to cook for other people.

And even though she could get by on selling the things she found on her adventures, she felt a lack of connection with anyone. She would pop in to see how Lydia was doing with her task, but she got the impression she was always interrupting something important. The merchants and smithies she knew didn’t bring the warmth people say you have with a friend. She didn’t feel she could call someone else a friend, even though she was somewhere between wanting one and reframing from social interaction.

Oh, how she wanted to just go back into the mountains. She didn’t have to deal with these things. Granted, she had to deal with fleas, vicious animals, wounds that wouldn’t fully heal for months, maintaining her equipment from scratch, often unsafe food and water, and a lack of anything warm that wouldn’t put her at risk. It wasn’t the contemporary conveniences she had gripes with; it was needing to maintain them.

Skathi sauntered into Breezehome, her house in Whiterun, and plopped down into the nearest chair. She spent a pretty penny to even buy this place, let alone furnish it. It bit into her coin, leaving her without much to spend on other things, like the arrows she typically needed. It was nice to have a bed to rest in, but it was also nice not rely on fletching all her arrows, which she wasn’t altogether certain was cost effective.

After about an hour of just sitting in that chair, letting her muscles relaxing and the occasional cat through her open door, she raised herself up and changed into her red dress to do her rounds on the shops. It was Warmaiden’s for steel and repairs, Arcadia’s Cauldron for a resupply of healing potions, Belethor’s General Goods for the General junk she wasn’t sure was useful to her, Carlotta for food and the Drunken Huntsmen for an ale.

Before she could make it that far, she spotted someone odd entering the city. A man in black robes and a hood that hid most of his face. His hands were pale, almost gray. A bright, orange light peaked out of the hood, though who knew what it was. Skathi didn’t know what this man brought with her, but she put a hand on her sheathed dagger just in case.

“Excuse me,” Skathi inquired, “who might you be?”

“I am but a simple traveler,” the stranger replied, “Do you ask this of everyone?”

“No, just strange people,” she elaborated, “Why are you here?”

He looked impatient. “I am here to give the Jarl counsel in these dangerous times,” he explained, “Move aside.”

The traveler was about to move passed Skathi when she stopped him with the back of her hand on his arm. “The Jarl won’t listen, see,” she tried to say.

Her words fell on prideful ears, as she spotted a smirk under that hood. “Oh, believe me,” he replied, “he’ll listen to me.”

And that’s when she got a better loot at his face. His nose was unnaturally raised, his skin was as gray as stone. Wrinkles as though his skin was a face draped over a smaller skull punctuated his appearance. And his eyes. His eyes were the bright, orange light. Skathi had only seen this kind of face before and she knew it well. It wasn’t the face of Man, Mer or Beastfolk.

**“Fus Roh Dah!”**

****

Skathi Shouted and it propelled the traveler into Warmaiden’s front door, tear it off its hinges. The folk Whiterun, especially Adrianne and her husband who ran this establishment, were shocked at this display and all looked at Skathi in disbelief.  
“Vampire!” Skathi yelled with her horse throat. 

The hood fell from the traveler’s face and all looked upon his disgusting visage with greater shock. The guards drew their blades, as did the townsfolk. As the vampire rose to use his magic, a bolt of steel pierce his chest. He fell back and the growing mob consumed him. 

Skathi turned to see where the bolt had come from and he saw an Orc in uniform armor but didn’t recognize the uniform. In his hands were a strange device, one that looked much like a bow on a been of wood, but that description hardly does it justice. Skathi was interesting in this strange warrior and where he came from. 

“I’ve been tracking that bastard all night,” the Orc muttered. He looked like he hadn’t slept, and it was midday. 

“What's that you're shooting with?” Skathi asked. 

The Orc looked taken out of a daze to answer this question. “Never seen a crossbow before, eh?” he smirked, “Not surprised. Kind of a Dawnguard specialty. Nothing better for putting down vampires. Here, take this one and give it a try. You'll want to know how to use it if you really plan to join the Dawnguard.” 

Dawnguard? “You keep saying Dawnguard,” Skathi stated, “but I don’t know what that means. Some sort of vampire hunting guild I haven’t heard of?” 

“That it is,” the Orc replied, “We search out and destroy those bloodsucking scum wherever we find them. We’re looking for anyone willing to fight against the growing vampire menace. What do you say?" 

This looked to be the opportunity she’d been searching for. Skathi considered joining one of the guilds, but none appealed to her. Whether it was a lack of interest, skill or it being illegal, she just wasn’t drawn to any of the guilds. This was something she do and would be quite willing to do. 

“Killing vampires?” Skathi remarked, “Where do I sign up?” 

“Ha. Isran's going to like you,” the Orc laughed, “Go talk to him at Fort Dawnguard, southeast of Riften. He'll decide if you're Dawnguard material.” 

The Orc left to the Drunken Huntsman for a drink, as that was the closest tavern to the gate. Skathi went on with her day, but tomorrow, she would set out to Fort Dawnguard. 

* * *

As it turned out, Ravani had noticed someone walking oddly close to Rena, but said nothing at the time. The Dunmer gave no explanation for why she didn’t say anything, which confused Rena greatly. They were still colleagues, so why not tell her? Perhaps she didn’t because Rena hadn’t asked, or the pickpocket hadn’t done anything, or there was more likely Ravani would be paid for retrieving it. She wouldn’t; courtesy traditionally goes unpaid in the Imperial province. 

Rena followed Ravani across the market square, assured that it wouldn’t be naught. Rena came to distrust Ravani if previous paragraphs hadn’t made that clear. For all the talk of sisterhood in arms, the Dunmer’s history didn’t inspired confidence, nor did anything after the treaty. Between the betrayal and the treaty was a history of valorous behavior that went above and beyond the call of duty, but she hadn’t lately lived up to that reputation. 

Amongst the market crowd, Rena walked without fear, as she couldn’t be pickpocketed twice with no coin purse. The crowd was a mix of the rich and poor, landowners and serfs, Nords and their neighbors. They equally walked without fear, as there was a line of Nords, a line of Dunmer and a line of Argonians. With the reputation of the city, one would think they’d be suspicious of everyone and everything, but on their face was close to a grim acceptance with mild frustration. They’d clearly accepted their fate, resigned to never being able to change it. 

“There,” Ravani pointed across the crowd, “That’s your pickpocket.” 

Rena followed her comrade’s finger to across the market square to someone she should’ve guessed but wouldn’t of this act. It couldn’t be more than teenager, albeit a small one for a Nord. She looked more a Breton in rags than a Nord of Skyrim, and she likely was. Such a pitiable and pathetic girl, Rena supposed she should’ve expected the girl to be a thief. 

The two Legionnaires approached the girl, which frightened her, and sent her running. Rena figured she should’ve expected that, so gave chase. 

They followed her from the Dryside Riften to Plankside. See, the city was partially built upon Lake Honrich, likely because they were right up against hills that restricted how big the city could be, so they decided to be opportunistic and expanded lakeside. When they reached their limits there, they expanded upwards. Dryside was the upper level, home to the wealthy members of Riften’s citizenry, while Plankside led to the common folks’ homes and the Ratway, a den of all the worst villainy of the city. The thief likely was headed towards the Ratway. 

Ravani likely knew that, as she threw herself against the door to the Ratway like a rock. The thief was about to double back, but her path was block by Rena. The Legionnaire was about to say, “Job well done,” when the thief summoned a ball of purple energy to her hand. Rena braced for whatever magic the thief was about to throw, but then she threw it. 

Rena couldn’t feel anything different, but she sure did see something weird. The thief herself was gone, but her clothes were still there and being worn. It took a moment to realize this was a failed Invisibility spell, even if the thief didn’t immediately realize that. She surely did, as she bolted across street with no regard for noise. Quickly, Ravani tackled the walking clothes and the girl inside reappeared, squirming like a worm. 

Rena stood over her and unbuckled her sword belt. “In the name of Titus Mede II, Emperor of Cyrodiil, High Rock and Skyrim,” she announced, “you’re under arrest for theft of an Imperial Legion officer.” 

The girl’s eyes went wide. At this announcement, two Legion guards came and took the girl out of Ravani arms. They took her away, likely to the jail. Rena wasn’t proud of it, as it wasn’t as though she arrested a criminal mastermind; it was a teenaged girl that pickpocketed her. She didn’t even get her coin purse back. 

Ravani brushed herself off and stood back up. “Well, that was something,” she remarked, “Lunch is on me, I suppose.” 

“I’ll pay you back,” Rena assured. 

Ravani raised an eyebrow. “That you should,” she remarked, “What time is it?” 

Rena checked the sky. The sun was at its height, but slightly to the west. “I forgot about that,” she admitted. 

The captain bolted up to Dryside and out to the docks. During all her time during this posting, Rena never took a day off, but her comrade from the Civil War did. Ansgar Nordson, Knight Errant of the Imperial Legion. He was just returning from leave and Rena felt obligated as his colleague to meet his upon his return. They were being transferring to Solitude in a few days as well for similar reasons. 

Rena arrived at the docks to see a ship mooring. It was a fishing ship, not meant for passengers, but it had the name Ansgar gave her for his ship, the Impotent Trout. The crew, one by one, left, all hardy Nords with the look of the salt north on them. Rena figured Ansgar decided to take fishing ship either for innocuousness or cheapness, perhaps doing work for board. 

That turned out to be true, as she found Ansgar amongst the crew, being the one tying up the ship. He looked as wet as the Sea of Ghosts and his shirt definitely gave that impression. Beside him was the equally wet Mariqa, a Khajiit that always seem to follow him. I should clarify, it was that they were drenched, just damp. 

“So, you two kill Ulfric while you were out?” Rena remarked. Ansgar did despise Ulfric deeply and Rena wouldn’t be surprised if this were all an opportunity to kill him without doing AWOL. 

Ansgar looked incredulous. “No,” he said shortly. 

“You went swimming instead, did you?” Rena asked. She tried to make small talk but wasn’t particularly good at it by her own admission. 

“We didn’t go in the drink,” Ansgar replied, a little lighter, “This is us having just sail over the lake. The humidity here is absurd.” 

“Mariqa wishes death,” the eponymous Khajiit remarked. 

Rena smirked. “Alright, boys,” she chuckled, “let’s get you two changed.” 

Mariqa quickly got off the Impotent Trout with speed as if he were chased by Hircine, Daedric Prince of the Hunt. Ansgar meanwhile finished his work and walked across the dock solemnly. Rena hadn’t really seen this from him. She wondered what happen in leave, if it was bodily weariness or a weight on his soul. She couldn’t say, but she knew Ansgar was excited for this and it seemed he had a specific plan. What happened? 

“Lunch is on Ravani,” Rena remarked, keeping up with Ansgar. 

Ansgar raised an eyebrow. “That traitor?” he questioned. He had similar opinions as Rena but tempered by his hatred of the Stormcloaks. 

“Well, it’s not like I can pay,” Rena replied, “I got pickpocketed today.”


	2. Chapter 2

Ravani ducked out of having lunch with her Legion comrades. Despite her numerous political allegiances, she never felt comradeship with any of them. With the Stormcloaks, she was certain all her shield-siblings were only ever in it for their own reasons, even young Jeanne, and she found they typically weren’t ones she could support. And in the Legion, she believed they were the best bet to wipe out the dragon threat, but that Dragonborn torpedoed the debate. Neither lived up to her needs or wants.

As such, she went back to her old ways of survival, even still in the Legion. By this day, her last in the Legion, she managed to do a smart bit of lawbreaking. Some smuggling, espionage or just clean theft put a bit of coin in her pocket. In fact, she had just returned from Ivarstead as part smuggling a bit of Black-Briar mead without a coin going to the Black-Briar family. All of this was practice for tomorrow, where she would have to rely on these skills solely, not as a side hustle to supplement her Legion coin.

Sat alone, Ravani counted her reward for her part in the smuggling. It was five amethysts and three silver rings, her employer having paid her in the contents of a jeweler’s box. All in all, her reward was worth near seven-hundred septims, but would be a fair bit less at the Pawned Prawned. She couldn’t calculate the exact number she would get, but she knew it would be enough for a day’s wage. That might be enough for the common folk, but she wasn’t about settle for such coin. She wanted more.

“Never done an honest day's work in your life for all that coin you're carrying, eh lass?” a smooth voice asked.

Ravani looked up and found Brynjolf stood at the table. He was well known as the local snake oil salesman and knew his trade well. You could spot him in a crowd with his long red hair, and many a maiden would throw herself on him if they weren’t certain he’d be a good husband. No one wants to oil a snake, you see, and anyone who does is asking to be bitten. He may wear fine clothes, but no one bought anything from him.

This would imply he was poor as a pauper, but he was always at his stall in the market. Ravani could tell why. Snake oil was a hide hustle; his real trade was surely illegal. She heard his name in passing here or there from folk of ill repute. They never characterized him as an idiot, but as someone you wouldn’t say no to if he wanted you for something and couldn’t stop if he wanted you gone. Should he ever approach the likes of you, be very afraid.

“I'm sorry, what?” the Dunmer coyly asked. She wasn’t afraid and welcomed the company.

“I'm saying you've got the coin,” Brynjolf remarked, “but you didn't earn a septim of it honestly. I can tell.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Ravani questioned, knowing that the answer would be telling.

“It's all about sizing up your mark, lass,” Brynjolf explained, smirking as he did so, “The way they walk, what they're wearing. It's a dead giveaway.” He never abandoned his charm throughout.

As Ravani thought, that told a lot about this confidence artist. “My wealth is none of your business,” she replied in faux disgust. She was actually impressed with his method, but she wanted to see how he’d react.

“Oh, but that's where you're wrong, lass,” the charmer corrected, never forgoing his signature trait, “Wealth is my business. Maybe you'd like a taste?”

This resolve impressing the Dunmer. She was certain there was something of worth in his opportunity. “What do you have in mind?” she inquired, though warry. She could easily be screwed out of something by this charismatic liar.

Brynjolf’s fox smile grew, likely thinking he had the chicken in his mouth. “I've got a bit of an errand to perform,” he stated, “but I need an extra pair of hands. And in my line of work, extra hands are well-paid.”

“What do I have to do?” Ravani asked, letting him think he’d actually caught the fowl.

“Simple,” the fox explained, “I'm going to cause a distraction and you're going to steal Madesi's silver ring from a strongbox under his stand. Once you have it, I want you to place it in Brand-Shei's pocket without him noticing.”

Ah, framing him for theft. That was their game. Given the corruption in the guards went on despite the regime change and fresh hands from the Legion, this would easily get him arrested. However, the question was why do this. Brand-Shai was only a merchant of wares from Morrowind, not a hardened criminal or political pariah. It seemed petty.

As such, Ravani asked, “Why plant the ring on Brand-Shei?”

“There's someone that wants to see him put out of business permanently,” Brynjolf explained in a more serious voice, “That's all you need to know. Now, you tell me when you're ready and we'll get started.”

And so, he left, likely to work his stall. As he left, Ravani gave a telling remark.

“If I do this, I guess that’s enough to get me a job in your little club, wouldn’t it?”

Brynjolf looked in shock from the statement, the one break in his façade. Ravani concluded that not even a snake oil salesman would have the gall to destroy a legitimate businessman. He was smart, and since he was smart, he had to know that this wouldn’t bring a boom to his own sales. No, they still wouldn’t buy his Falmer blood elixir, even if he were the only merchant in the Rift.

As such, he had to be doing this for organized crime. Even with the rampant lawbreaking in Riften, there were few criminal organizations in Skyrim. In this city, you were almost certain to find every crime somehow tied back to Maven Black-Briar but knocking off a random businessman seemed petty for the Jarl.

Even if she couldn’t determine who would want this, she could determine who would do this. The Thieves’ Guild operated out of Riften and Riften alone. They were the sort to do this sort of skullduggery. Maybe someone wanted those Morrowind goods, maybe they just didn’t like the guy selling them, but they were who you would go to if you wanted this sort of thing done.

Brynjolf’s shocked expression faded into a smirk. He was never flatfooted for long. “We’ll see about it after the show,” he replied. And he left to work his stall.

Ravani reckoned that was only for show. This was likely a recruitment run, not a favor for a friend. If it seemed like she was quick on the uptake, well she had to be if she wanted to survive. You had to know everything someone might want to do three days before they did it just in case that ended with you shanked, imprisoned or worse so you could do it to them first.

There was guilt in her heart for doing this to someone who likely didn’t deserve this. Such a shame. She was still going to do it; she was always going to do it for the money, but that doesn’t mean you have to enjoy everything you do. It’s preferred, but not mandatory.

* * *

Jeanne made her way to Rorikstead without much issue. She had to buy a few odds and ends, mostly arms and armor, as her regular ones weren’t on her person before the drunken adventure. Also, a horse. She thanked whatever god was looking out for her that her coin purse wasn’t purloined in her intoxication. She had worked hard to get that money and she would rain fire upon whoever would steal it.

When Jeanne arrived, she was remined of her last visit. She came to secure the Rorik of Rorikstead’s fealty to the new Jarl, but it turned into a much worse mess. Fortunately, Rorik swore his vows and Jeanne believed she’d never think of this hamlet ever again.

That would be the case if what happened later never happened. With the changing of the guard, a virtual warband of bandits decided it was the perfect time to attack Rorikstead. Without guards, many people were killed until the Stormcloaks arrived. They found the bandits’ den and put it to the torch. Jeanne was assured no brigands survived.

The village certainly showed its scars. Houses burnt had yet to be repaired, demolished, or replaced. The villagers walked with gloom clear in their eyes, and flowers in their hands weren’t an uncommon sight. The guards kept an eye over their shoulder to the east, to Swindler’s Den, where the bandits once came. No one could forget what happened here.

Jeanne was careful not to disrupt the villagers’ routine. She dismounted and led her horse down the road. The villagers’ still watched her, their eyes with judgement on her. It was maybe her imagination, but they saw past her common veneer to see the woman that caused them so much grief, even if it wasn’t directly. She couldn’t be dissuaded from the idea.

She still asked the townsfolk what they’d seen. Some wouldn’t talk to her, others claimed to be asleep when she would’ve been there, but there were still those that took note of her appearance last night. They didn’t think much of it, just a wandering adventure drunk of her ass. It wasn’t helpful.

Once Jeanne got to the other side of town, she was met by a Redguard man with a farmer’s clothes and fire in his eyes. “You!” he barked, “You've got a lot of nerve showing yourself in this town again. What do you have to say for yourself?”  
“I'm sorry?” Jeanne questioned. She had hurt this town enough sober, let alone drunk.

“Sorry ain’t good enough!” the farmer snarked back, “Not while my Gleda is still out there, alone and afraid. You kidnapped her and sold her to that Giant.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Jeanne admitted, guiltily. It sounded like she gave away his wife or daughter to a Giant.

“Is that so?” the farmer fumed, “Does the name Gleda ring a bell? The star beauty of my farm? Kidnapped by a drunk and sold to a Giant? You'd better remember her right fast, before I call the guards and have you hauled away.”

“That sounds pretty bad,” Jeanne trailed off. Maybe it was her life as a noble that jaded her to his overreaction. He lost a goat, but he acted like his family was dead! And people in this town had! The balls on this guy would impress her if it weren’t stupid and selfish.

“You're damned right it does,” the farmer snarked, “I'll never breed another prize-winning goat like Gleda! And don't you think of coming back to Rorikstead until you get her back from that Giant.”

Jeanne decided it was worth it to go off into the grasslands to find that goat. The farmer wouldn’t be useful otherwise. She went off, leaving her horse in town to keep from it getting launched into the Void of Oblivion. Going after a Giant, she ran that risk.

She didn’t find much out there for the first hour. The closest Giants’ camp was to the north, way out of the way. When she poked her head in, she didn’t even find goats’ hide tanning. Seemed like a big absence if they had a recently been given a goat. That lead went nowhere.

When she went to the south, she discovered a Giant’s head poking up over the hills. The gray skin and squinting eyes were telltale sign. That and the thundering footstep that followed them everywhere they went. It wasn’t entirely clear if he noticed her, but chances were he wouldn’t care. They seemed a somber lot, the Giants, but maybe that was just the face the always gave.

As the Giant turned the corner around a hill, Jeanne could spot the goat by his feet, most likely Gleda. However, what caught her attention the most was the number of toes on his feet. Nine. On the list of materials needed to fix Sam Guevenne’s staff was a Giant’s toe. The goat was likely payment for the toe, seeing as the ingredient is beyond rare. It wouldn’t be easy to get the goat back, seeing as they had little other interests besides livestock.

And so, Jeanne stole the goat. She picked it up with both hands and bolted to Rorikstead. The Giant screamed presumably obscenities at her and gave chase. Jeanne was way faster, as she had more practice and less weight than the Giant.

As soon as Jeanne reached the city limits, the guards took notice of this scene and began releasing arrows onto the Giant. It wasn’t so useful, as he had thick skin, so Jeanne threw fireballs onto him. Her inexperience with magic was clear, as the burns inflicted could be worse.

“The Giant didn’t stop and let its club smash against the closest guard, launching into the sky like a catapult. It was glorious and horrifying, magnificent and morbid. It terrified some but inspired the rest of the guards to subdue the monsters. Eventually, he was brought to his knees and a guard brought her war hammer down on his head. It rolled across the ground until it fell into an open mole hill. Jeanne felt that could very well be an interesting sport, that would be.”

With that excitement over, Jeanne took the goat over to the farmer that tasked her. His mouth was agape from the scene, seemingly unaware of anything around him. Jeanne wasn’t amused much.

So, she dropped the goat on the ground, and it made a funny bleat. “Here's your goat,” Jeanne stated, “Now, can you help me retrace my steps?”

That shook the farmer from his daze, and he crouched to meet his goat. “Gleda!” he beamed, “And not a scratch on her! Happy day! I still can't figure out why you stole her.”

The farmer picked himself up and to face the drunkard. “You left a note explaining it,” he recounted, “but half of it was gibberish and the rest had mead spilled on it. Only bit I could make out was ‘repaying Ysolda in Whiterun,’ and even that's mostly scribbles. Guess you could try there.”

Jeanne nodded and led her horse out of town. Back to Whiterun, eh? This was turning into a tour of her service. What was after this? Falkreath? That battle was probably the only one she didn’t feel guilt over. It’s good enough reason to carry a wineskin.

* * *

Rena found it difficult to move past the events at noontime. For one, she was penniless until she got her coin purse back. For another, it was hard to justify things. The thief was a thief, no one could argue that, but she was young and lacked any other choice. It was Rena’s money, money she earned. She doubted that girl could earn money like most people. No trade, no guild, no appliable skills. Life wasn’t in that girl’s favor.

As such, Rena went to the jail for a visit.

The jail was in the shadow of Mistveil Keep, just to the right if you’re heading toward it. It’s proximity was common in the major city, though ironic given Riften’s reputation. Everything was irony in this city, from the guard uniform to the Jarl’s name to the people living there. There was nothing that couldn’t be taken without irony. It was tiring, as you can imagine.

Rena entered the jail to be met by a guard. “What are you doing down here?” the guard asked.

“It's fine, I'm allowed to be here,” Rena explained, showing her sword with the Legion emblem on it.

The guard saw the emblem was somewhat embarrassed. “Oh, my mistake then,” he apologized, “Sorry, you can go on ahead.”

Rena never got used to the fact that Legionnaires were the guards. They were trained as soldiers and held the northern holds as they’d slain the hold guards and it was felt to be safer this way. The Rift was unique, as the guards had been retired as it was believed they wouldn’t be loyal, which prompted the Legion to step in. Their loyalty proved strong to their Jarl, as the whole twelve-thousands of them went to Windhelm to join Laila Law-Giver. Rena wondered how much that had to do with Jarl Maven and her reputation.

You see, Jarl Maven Black-Briar owned a meadery in town and that’s how she made her money. Well, the money the Empire could keep track of. Rumor had it they had influence in far more circles than just the mead industry. The Thieves’ Guild, Dark Brotherhood, the Empire, even the Thalmor. The Imperial connection was proven, but the rest was only conjecture. If any of that was proven to be true, she’d be the Empire’s mercy, but no one gave them such proof. Worrying, at least to Rena.

Remembering why she came here in the first place, Rena looked around for the jail cell with the girl. She’d ask one of the guards, but she worried that the description of a young girl in rags being thrown in the jail wouldn’t be specific enough. Anyone who didn’t have land and titles was thrown in without regard if they couldn’t pay. There were exceptions, but not many.

Amongst there jail were those with reputation. Threki the Innocent claims she was arrested for decrying Ulfric Stormcloak, but she wouldn’t still be there if that were true. She was instead detained for assaulting any she thought were Stormcloak sympathizers, even if they were publicly neutral. Molgrom Twice-Killed was a career thief with a history of killing his marks and he’d say it to your face. The “Twice-Killed” was an exaggeration for a snappier name; he was only almost killed once. Some strange people were in this place.

Eventually, Rena found the girl in a mostly barren cell. She was curled up in the corner with a bloody forehead. The guards had clearly shown unacceptable brutality, but they would likely get away with it. Not if Rena had something to say about it. Even if she couldn’t do anything else, she could do this at least.

“Guard,” Rena called, “unlock this.”

The closest guard came over, looking incredulous. “I’m sorry, but no one is allowed out of their cage,” he explained.

Rena raised her sheathed sword. His reaction changed. “As you wish, captain,” he nodded.

The guard unlocked the cell and allowed Rena into it. She approached the girl, who curled up tighter. Rena kneeled down and inspected the girl’s wound. It wasn’t a cut, but the clear result of a beating. While not specifically against any protocol to do this, Rena knew it was unacceptable behavior. Perhaps sympathy for her thief was uncalled for, but she felt it was at least her place to be the only one where such feelings mattered.

Rena took some stray cloth and her water flask. She wet the cloth and squeezed the water out. With the damp cloth, she cleaned the girl’s wound. The girl looked up in surprise, perhaps for the mere idea of kindness towards her, or that it was her mark that was doing it for her. Rena couldn’t know, but she did know she would try to at least be kind.

“I’m Rena,” she explained, “Who are you?”

The girl was stone still. “Alary,” she blurted out.  
Rena led Alary to her feet. “I think I could have use of you,” she remarked. She couldn’t think of much, maybe a squire for Ansgar, but that would require his permission. “I’ll be back for you.”

Alary nodded. Rena felt guilty for leaving her alone, but she need to do a few things. The first was apply for the girl to be an indentured servant, something that wasn’t available for everyone and would result in a tax but was the only way to keep Alary from other punishments. The other was recover her coin purse, a simple task.

Rena entered the jail barracks and spotted the lieutenant in command. “Officer, I would like to recover my coin purse,” she explained.

The smug officer in command was a fat man by the name of Molvortius Valgiosus. He wasn’t well liked by his fellows, nor did he have a clean reputation. He was the son of a Knight Bachelor that was hated in the court of Bruma for his uncouth behavior, which appeared to be hereditary. If there was a vice, Molvortius tried it, likely got bored with and moved on, save food and other people’s gold. He was notorious for stealing other officer’s daily pay, which got him reprimands, beatings, and other such punishments.

Molvortius looked in surprise at Rena’s request. “So, that was your pay,” he remarked. Though not in uniform, nor did either know each other personally, Rena was clearly his superior officer by the emblem on her sword. That’s what he kept staring at.  
“Yes,” Rena confirmed warily, “Now I’d like my gold.”

The fat man shrugged and took what was her coin purse from the evidence chest and threw it over. It flew across the room with none of the expected resistance. When it landed in Rena’s hand, she found no weight from gold, nor was any gold inside. Was it the thief that somehow had the foresight to hide her takings or the lieutenant with a reputation of stealing other officer’s pay? Decision, decisions.

“Molvortius,” Rena remarked, “it’s not what I think happened; it’s what it looks like.”

“I swear by Kynareth,” the fat lieutenant stuttered, “I did not take your gold!”

“Swear by Zenithar!” Rena commanded. The god of commerce would give far more weight to such a promise, more so that the goddess of nature.

Molvortius said nothing for two long. Rena decided he couldn’t do it, or he’d be struck down like his mother likely told him he’d be.

“Arkay take you,” Rena spat.

* * *

Agata had traveled as fast and as long as she could to the Hall of the Vigilant. It was all the way in the Pale, far from the city of ruins that was Markarth. She rode until dusk and rose at dawn to ride again. She had little supplies, seeing as she left in a hurry, just a bedroll and some salted food. it was all worth it if she could be safe from Molag Bal.

She rode upon her horse, Bo. Well, she called it Bo. The stablemaster probably had a more fitting name for it, but she just called all her horses Bo. They died a lot. And she often replaced them, regardless of her coin purse. Something she learned very quickly is that a lot of the things she can’t afford to buy or let go of can be stolen.

To Agata’s understanding, she was close to the Hall. That made the smoke rising to the sky troublesome. Granted, it could just be a bonfire, but they didn’t seem the sort to need or desire a bonfire. Such flames couldn’t be explained any way else except for the Hall itself to be on fire. She prayed to Stendarr that wasn’t the case.

But it was. A turn of the corner and she saw a lodge in flames. As the flame still burned, and the ground was covered in ash, it had to be recent. Agata stopped in the snow and saw that she wasn’t safe. The Vigilants of Stendarr were gone from this province. With the war, she doubted they would see immediate reinforcements. She wouldn’t find aid here.

But there was still something in there. She could see movement in the smoke clouds. The poor Nord dismounted and drew her faithful axe to in case it was the arsonists. She hoped there was a still living Vigilant, but she considered they may not be a living Vigilant. Necromancer and Daedra worshippers were the most likely culprits.

Agata slowly approached the Hall and the forms didn’t seem alerted. She thought she would have the upper hand when she heard canine growls. Dammit, they had hounds, she cursed.

But then she found something more fitting of a curse. Out from the smoke bounded hounds that looked like Daedra kept them, furless black skin and glowing red eyes wearing steel collars. These creatures didn’t seem typical of necromancer or Daedra worshippers. They seemed like no mortal would keep them, but a mortal had to. For the past two hundred years, Daedra couldn’t move far from their princes’ shrines, so it couldn’t be them.

Following the hounds was a creature Agata couldn’t believe wasn’t a Daedra. It was impossible. Clad in fine red leather coat with intricate designs and black boots, this figure’s clothes were far better than his face. A face that looked as fair as death itself, his eyes staring straight at her. She didn’t know what this creature was, but that she had no choice but to fight it.

And she soon learned that wasn’t true, as his head was crushed by a mighty war hammer. His now limp body was pushed aside by a Vigilant of Stendarr in the flesh, who ran to Agata’s side, smashing one of the hounds by the neck as he did so. This filled the poor Nord with hope this wasn’t a failed effort.

“Come at me, you vampire bastards!” the Vigilant proclaimed, “If there is one us alive, your masters will soon see Oblivion!”

Just as he said that, two more vampires walked out the smoke in similar garb as their fallen comrade. Agata wondered if this was the entire group or just left there to secure the Hall. At worse, these were the still living victors of the battle and there were far more beyond them that would still terrorize Skyrim. At best, these were the last vampires in Skyrim, but the former seemed more likely.

The Vigilant brought his hammer down the smashed the closest hound’s head in. This provoked the last hound to strike at him, though he kept its mouth at bay with the hammer’s handle. With this opportunity, Agata brought her axe down the cut its head off, though it failed to cut through its neckbone. Still, the last of the hounds died and that only left their vampire masters.

The two vampiric bastards raised their hands and unleashed red energy out that near surrounded them. This provoked the Vigilant’s anger as he charged the closest one on the porch. Agata followed suit as the Vigilant tried to smash his attacker’s chest, but he dodged. Just as he opened his mouth, fangs as clear as the snow on the ground, Agata put her axe in his mouth. He staggered, his comrade choosing to stab the Vigilant with a knife.

These attacks did little to dissuade the Vigilant. The vampire bleeding from the mouth was taken in his arms and dropped him over his shoulder. The vampire with the knife tried to stab Agata, but she sliced his hand in half. As he recoiled, she sliced his throat open and he fell down, presumably dead. In hindsight, these vampires weren’t all that tough. She wondered how they destroyed the Hall.

The Vigilant rose from the bloody remains of the vampire’s head, clearly wore from the day’s events. “Damn you, Isran,” he muttered.

“Was that one of their names?” Agata inquired. She heard vampires could turn you into one of them. A haunting fate to fight your own comrades like that.

“Gods, no,” the Vigilant scoffed, “He’d kill himself the comment he thought he were turning.”

Agata decided to change the subject, as he might still be talking about one of the dead. “Where did these things come from?” she asked.

“Dimhollow Crypt,” he explained, “One of our scouts noticed a strange amount of travelers on the road, all going to that cave in the mountainside. He followed them there and found more vampires than there were fingers on each Vigilants’ hands. We lost contact, looked for him and found the nest.”

“And they attacked the Hall?” Agata asked.

The Vigilant gestured to the field of ash and snow before him. Some of that ash might be what remains of the vampires.

“They attacked during the day,” he recounted, “That weakened them and made the battle slightly more even, but we couldn’t weather them.” He grimly looked upon the ash. “Whatever their business they had there, and my brethren had some thoughts on that place, it was enough to raise their wrath on us.”

That sounded about right. She didn’t know what vampires would want beyond blood and the night, but it couldn’t be good. This raised Agata’s anxieties. Molag Bal’s wrath was after her, only one Vigilant of Stendarr remained and vampires were ready to wreak havoc on the province. Her life was finite.

“I need to find Isran,” the Vigilant stated as he began to leave, “I might know where he is, and he might be the best hope for Skyrim.”

“I’ll go with you,” Agata replied.

The Vigilant looked grimly confused, but firm. “No, you need to go to Dawnstar,” he responded, “It’s safer there than with me.”

“Sir, that just isn’t true,” Agata retorted, “Vampires are the least of my worries.”

The Vigilant’s face turned from slightly confused to guarded horror. “What have you done?”

* * *

It was late in the day when Ravani chose to enter the market circle. It wasn’t so much because her preparation took most of the afternoon, but rather waiting for the best opportunity. As the sun set was typically when traffic in the market died down, so when Brynjolf distracted everyone, the merchants wouldn’t feel obligated to stay at their stall. It was Ravani’s experience that this was the best time to pull something, and she would need every chance she got.

Brynjolf was at his stall, his stock far from empty. They were these potion bottles without a legitimate alchemist’s name on them or even a description of what they were. A classic device for any confidence trickster; a bottle of something whose something is up to the imagination of the seller and buyer. Could be a beautifier potion, could be a mind-expander, could be pure joy, but was salt water most of them time. Ravani knew a fair few confidence artist in her time and the fact Brynjolf hadn’t been arrested yet was a testament to himself and Riften.

Ravani approached the businessman, acting as though she were more interest in buying than conversation. “I'm ready,” she stated, “Let's get this started.”

“Good,” Brynjolf smirked, “Wait until I start the distraction and then show me what you're made of.”

Ravani nodded and left the stall. She snuck behind a pony wall for the moment to strike. Another advantage to doing this by sunset was the shadows to hide in, especially with these walls no higher than your waist. Ravani couldn’t ask for a better opportunity if she grabbed the sun herself.

“Everyone! Everyone!” Brynjolf announced, “Gather 'round! I have something amazing to show you that demands your attention! Gather 'round all! No pushing, no shoving. Plenty of room!"

With that, most of the empty market began approach Brynjolf stall, including the victims. “Come on, Brynjolf,” Brand-Shei scoffed, “what is it this time?”

“Patience, Brand-Shei,” Brynjolf begged, “This is a rare opportunity, and I wouldn't want you to get left out.”

“That's what you said about the Wisp Essence” Madesi snarked, “and it turned out to be crushed nirnroot mixed with water!”

“That was a simple misunderstanding,” the salesman explained, “but this item is the real thing. Lads and lasses, I give you, Falmerblood Elixir!”

Ravani had only listened to this point to amused herself. When your talents revolve around sneaking, you tend to pick up voyeuristic habits. And no, not those voyeuristic habits; she wasn’t into that sort of thing. And believe her when she said that these sorts of conversation were just her thing.

With not a guard to spot her, Ravani jump the pony wall and into the shadow it cast. She snuck over to Madesi's stall, it covered in jewels and jewelry. He was a seller of such things, so there was no surprise by their presence. Of course, it wasn’t any of them that Ravani were here to steal; not without a fence and none were what she was tasked with.

The ring she knew Brynjolf meant was Madesi's signet ring. No, he wasn’t nobility. Anyone can sell jewelry in Skyrim, but there was nothing to prove they were legitimately acquired. This signet ring was the signifier of his trustworthiness; all his goods were fresh to market, even if they might have been reforged. He wasn’t a pawnbroker; he was a jeweler, and you could be sure of that.

The ring was in Madesi's strongbox, as such a ring was highly valued and couldn’t be bought in a store. A good jeweler keeps this in a safe place and only takes it out when it’s needed to confirmed something in an official capacity. Madesi was as smart as any jeweler, but Ravani couldn’t easily be stopped by a simple lock. She might be rusty, but a little oil on that wouldn’t keep the ring in its box.

Downing a potion of lockpicking, Ravani got to work. She could feel it steady her hands and open her ears to the slight sound around her while clouding anything too far away from her. She used to reach this level of concentration naturally, but her part in the Civil War gave little opportunity to apply it. It was a little over a minute when the last tumbler was compromised to her pick, when it would take half that time in her hay day. Out of practice for sure.

She took the ring from the strongbox, a unique silver design no one could mistake. No came the harder task of planting it. The sun was against her, as Brand-Shei was far from being in the shadow. Even with his attention drawn, the risk of being spotted by one of the guards was high. It wouldn’t be easy.

Ravani circled the market, out of the eyes of most. She approached Brand-Shei from his place sat on a crate. Oh, if she had only bought the right potion, this would be easier. Either way, she found a back pocket on him that he likely wouldn’t notice if someone touched it and slipped the ring in it. With the deed done, Ravani pulled back behind the pony wall in this quarter of the market.

It didn’t take long after that for Brynjolf’s sales pitch end and the crowd dispersed. The merchants went back to their stall, the odd grumbling over lost sales. It was then Madesi would notice the clear tampering that went on in his stall; Ravani made sure he’d notice. The jeweler immediately turned to Brand-Shei’s direction. Not to say anything, but Madesi was an Argonian, who have never had the best of relationships with Dunmer, which Brand-Shei appeared to be. Next thing he did was talk to one of the guards.

As the guard approached the Morrowind merchant, Ravani went over to Brynjolf. “Looks like I chose the right person for the job,” the salesman remarked, “And here you go,” he put a far from light bag into the Dunmer’s hand, “your payment, just as I promised. The way things have been going around here, it's a relief that our plan went off without a hitch.”

From the text and sound, and a wise check inside, Ravani could tell it was coin. “What's been going on?” she asked. If he was part of the Thieves’ Guild, why hire an outsider? She expected her reward to be a membership.

“Bah,” Brynjolf deflected, “My organization's been having a run of bad luck, but I suppose that's just how it goes. But never mind that, you did the job and you did it well. Best of all, there's more where that came from, if you think you can handle it.”

“I can handle it,” Ravani assured. She’d swam the Sea of Ghosts, pissed off Ulfric Stormcloak in his keep and fought in the battles of Whiterun, Dawnstar, Winterhold and Fort Kastav. She’s fought a dragon! She can handle whatever Brynjolf had in mind, especially for coin.

Brynjolf had a smirk on his face. Ravani reckoned that was the answer he wanted but thought that she was cocky.

“All right, then,” he remarked, “Let's put that to the test.”


	3. Chapter 3

Jeanne had arrived in Whiterun past nightfall. It was strange, returning to the site of her first battle. It was much like how she imagined returning home, but the feelings of nostalgia and warmth was replaced with the opposite. Her hands trembled at the memory of that battle, with the sight of the forge she fought that Imperial officer leaving her short of breath. This was her loss of her innocence, she maintained.

She tried to discern if the city was hurting under Stormcloak rule. The guards were innocuous enough, but few would wander the streets under the night sky. It was so bizarre, a couple guards asked if she was a vampire. She balked; if she were a vampire, she wouldn’t be looking at them with her perfectly blue eyes. Even she knew that.

Still searching, Jeanne went to the Bannered Mare, the local inn, she would have to say. Folks there drank heartily, perhaps unwilling to go home after their hard day’s work. No one paid attention to the outsider, patrons demanding their liquors and the waitresses keeping up as best as they could. It was sonderously wonderous, but also quite loud and useless to her task at hand.

Jeanne tried to ask this patron or that patron where an Ysolda could be found, but they were less than interested. A “Not right now” or a “I don’t care” or a “She might be over there” got her nowhere. Eventually, she came upon a maiden with short red hair and a blue dress that had a disapproving looking on her face before Jeanne ever said a word. Judging from last night’s adventures, this was Ysolda.

“So, you're finally back,” she fumed, “Look, I've been patient, but you still owe me.”

“Yeah, I've been getting that a lot,” Jeanne remarked. This quest or that quest was getting ridiculous.

“Aw, what's wrong?” Ysolda snarked, “Did the engagement fall through?” she sighed and continued, “Look, how about we call it even, as long as you bring back the wedding ring? That's really a shame. I was so looking forward to the wedding. You said you'd have all the most interesting guests.”

Jeanne was confused by that statement. She was heavily instilled by the idea of the sanctity of marriage from an early age. This was definitely something her parents would recoil in horror over. She decided to get married while drunk? Even Lady Mara would smite her for such stupidity! Given no ring was on her finger, she could only assume she still had yet to tie the knot.

“How much was the ring?” Jeanne asked, opening up her coin purse.

“Oh, now you’re paying for it?” Ysolda balked, “Well, the price as doubled: two thousand gold.”

Jeanne wasn’t sure what she was thinking, trying to get the ring for free. She definitely had the original thousand gold as she handed it over to the poor girl. “That’s a down payment,” she clarified.

Ysolda was still incredulous. “Decided to go through with it then?” she questioned, “I knew you couldn't have forgotten about your fiancé. You spoke of him so glowingly. I don't know much about Morvunskar, but it sounded like a lovely place for the ceremony. Congratulations.”

As she lived in Eastmarch for the past couple months, Jeanne knew where and what Morvunskar was. It was an ancient fort atop a cliff overlooking all the hold, abandoned during the war. The explanation Yrsarald Thrice Pierced, the commander of the Eastmarch guard, gave for why it was abandoned was due to a lack of strategic need. After The Legion took the Pale, they discovered it was a mistake and the fort would be a key to defending the hold from an attack from the west.

But that’s when they discovered Morvunskar wasn’t uninhabited anymore. Necromancers had taken it and were difficult to uproot. They didn’t involve Jeanne, as she desired to move on from the Stormcloaks’ affairs, but now there was a need to take it back.

Before she turned in for the night, Jeanne went to Dragonsreach for aid. When she entered, some nobleman was talking with the Jarl like a lover scorned. Something about crimes against their clan and the Jarl’s apathy regarding, but Jeanne didn’t care much. Seemed a petty dispute between old men she wasn’t going to involve herself in.

Jeanne arrived in the war room to find both of who she would need to talk to: Sinmir, captain of the city guard, and Hjornskar Head-Smasher, commander of the Stormcloaks in Whiterun Hold. Hjornskar was a local boy that joined the Stormcloaks for all the usual reasons, but Sinmir wasn’t the same at all. Both wore the uniform, but she understood Sinmir as some local loudmouth that constantly criticized how the guard was run in the Bannered Mare. She wondered how much that changed with him in charge.

“Hawksly!” Hjornskar said in surprise, “I didn’t expect to see you.”

“Aye, brother,” Jeanne replied, “it’s been a long time since we took this place.” But to her, it was long enough for comfort.

“I’m sorry,” Sinmir interjected, “but civilians don’t have a place in the war room. Please leave.”

Hjornskar shook his head. “Nonsense!” as said as he pulled Jeanne into a pound hug strong as a bear, “A shield sister like her is always welcome in the halls of Dragonsreach.”

Jeanne’s surprise at such affection soon dissuaded. “Good of you say that, because I need to ask a favor.”

Jeanne explained her design to lead a small band of soldiers to Morvunskar and reclaim it. She was certain they could spare the soldiers, though it was a matter of if they would.

“Out of the question,” Sinmir was quick to say, “Whiterun’s security can’t be compromised by sending soldiers out of the hold.”

“The city will be fine,” Hjornskar remarked then turned to Jeanne, “I’ll grant you thirty strong from the hold’s reserve.”

Sinmir looked in shock. “You would undermine our hold’s security for such a favor?” he questioned, “Is this even your home?”

Hjornskar looked back strongly disappointed. “These aren’t Whiterun’s soldiers to give,” he reminded the city captain, “these men belong to Ulfric Stormcloak and I am his lieutenant in this hold. I will gladly lend them to a sister in arms.” He turned back to Jeanne, “You’ll have the thirty men.”

Jeanne nodded. “Thank you, shield brother,” she said in farewell, “Good evening, Captain Sinmir.”

She went to the Bannered Mare, pleased with how it went, but shaken. She had no pride for her time in the Stormcloaks, but still looked upon a comradery as the best in her life. Everyone was more brothers and sisters to each other than her own siblings. It made her feel like she was part of something great a glorious, but that wasn’t what it was. It was a war that everyone’s still deciding if it’s still going on or not.

Jeanne sighed as her head hit the bed at the inn. It had been a long day and she discovered a lot of embarrassing things she did. Get married to someone she couldn’t even remember? What alcohol possessed her to do that? She surely would make that mistake again as long as she could help it.

* * *

Ravani chose to wait until the next day before meeting up with Brynjolf. He directed her to meet him in the Ragged Flagon, which was in the Ratways, which was a nickname to the city sewer system. Those who wished to be or were forgotten called the only home they had. Ravani was going to need a night’s rest before possibly getting shanked. It was a familiar sensation and she wasn’t fond of experiencing it again.

Having just left the Legion, it could be seen as inappropriate if Ravani wore the uniform in an Imperial controlled city. Something about stealing glory or shaming the Legion if she acted in that armor. No matter, Ravani was keen on spending some of her coin, and the armor always complained about a lack of business. Well, maybe if she had some return customers, she wouldn’t be so grumpy.

With fresh armor, Ravani descended into the Ratways. And immediately regretted it when the mother of all stenches hit her harder than the Stormcloak warband. And if anyone knew how hard that was, or how stinky they were, it would be her! It smelled like a chamber pot in a poorly managed Hall of the Dead. Ravani would need to set herself on fire when left to feel like she wouldn’t contract Ataxia from exposure.

Within the first chamber, she overheard some discussion about robbing people. She spotted the two having said discussion, both men with ratty armor and ratty hair. They looked terrible, as one would expect from someone living in a sewer. When the shorter of the two spotted her, a pulled a knife an approached her.

“Hey, you,” the man growled, “Stop right there! Empty your pockets or end up as skeever food.”

Ravani, unimpressed, responded, “I’m looking for the Ragged Flagon.”

“Brynjolf's been sending idiots like you down here for years looking for their hideout,” the bandit scoffed, “Funny thing is his stupid Thieves’ Guild never counted on me and my partner blocking the way. Now, empty your pockets or I'll pick the gold off your corpse.”

This warranted a sigh from the veteran of two armies. She drew her sword, a simple standard issue soldier’s blade with the Imperial Dragon on it. The bandit saw it, but Ravani couldn’t gage if he understood what that meant. Just to make sure he understood he was being threatened, she took an apple from her pouch, threw it in the air and threw a dagger in the wall next to the tall companion.

“I've killed dozens like you,” Ravani said with a matter-a-fact.

The bandit dropped his knife as he stepped back with fear plain on his face. “No need to get hasty,” he stuttered, “I, I was just testing you. You can go on ahead. Let 'em go, Hewnon. All clear.”

The bandits stepped to one side as Ravani went passed them. For the rest of the way through, she found little resistance. The only ones that challenged her were mere bandits, hardly a feat for the ages. She suspected most didn’t want to jump her, as someone traveling with a sword was one to challenge, but maybe word of her display to the other denizens spread. Glorious intimidation.

Eventually, Ravani arrived at the Ragged Flagon. It looked like a converted reservoir, with a pool of water making the walk to the flagon proper take longer than most taverns would allow. Upon spotting the customers, she noticed a few wore this black leather armor with many a pouch on their regalia. This included Brynjolf, who was in something of an argument with the barkeep.

“Give it up, Brynjolf,” the barkeep sighed, “those days are over."

“I'm telling you, this one is different,” Brynjolf retorted.

“We've all heard that one before, Bryn!” a rough figure snarked, “Quit kidding yourself.”

“It's time to face the truth, old friend,” the barkeep stated a tired mournfulness, “You, Vex, Mercer, you're all part of a dying breed. Things are changing!”

Brynjolf must’ve heard Ravani’s approach, as he turned his head to heard her and turned back to the barkeep and said, “Dying breed, eh? Well what do you call that then!”

This discussion did spark a question for Ravani. The Thieves’ Guild was considered one of the key players in Riften’s everything. You couldn’t sneeze without the fear of the snot getting stolen, but this painted a different picture. Had they been exaggerated, or was Riften just that easy to bully?

“Well, well,” Brynjolf smirked as he approached Ravani, “color me impressed, lass. I wasn't certain I'd ever see you again!”

“Getting here was easy,” Ravani remarked. It was more annoying than challenging.

Brynjolf’s smile intensified. “Reliable and headstrong?” he noted, “You're turning out to be quite the prize! So, now that I've whetted your appetite with our little scheme at the market, how about handling a few deadbeats for me?”

“Deadbeats?” Ravani scoffed, “What'd they do?” She thought she would be doing heists, not every other day in the Gray Quarter.

“They owe our organization some serious coin and they've decided not to pay,” Brynjolf explained, “I want you to explain to them the error of their ways.”

Ravani supposed she’d have to deal with this if she wanted to get to the good stuff. “Sounds good,” she begrudgingly accepted, “Who are they?”

Brynjolf’s expression was clearly disappointed in the lack of enthusiasm, but he didn’t say anything. “Keerava, Bersi Honey-Hand and Haelga,” he continued, “Do this right, and I can promise you a permanent place in our organization.”

Ravani perked up a little. A little. “How did you want me to handle it?” she asked. There were ways she could screw it up without knowing, and she wasn’t about make a mistake on her trial.

“Honestly, the debt is secondary here,” Brynjolf admitted, “What's more important is that you get the message across that we aren't to be ignored.”

Ravani had a few ideas for how to handle this, but her sponsor was quick to added, “A word of warning though: I don't want any of them killed. Bad for business.”

Fortunately, there weren’t many ideas that ended with them dead. Corpses send a message, but not the sort of message you always want to send. Great for armies, terrible for any businessmen or criminal. How the East Empire Company stays in business is anyone’s guess, as they have the tendency to use them for intimidation.

“Will I get a cut?” Ravani asked.

“Of course you'll get a cut,” Brynjolf chuckled, “We take care of our own. Now if you need any details on your marks, I'll be here. Get going.”

Ravani was quick to get going. She knew a few things about her targets, whether by rumor or what she’s noticed. She’s heard or seen them at least once a day, and each had something they couldn’t live without. Most everyone had such things, she noted, and anyone who doesn’t is someone to be afraid of.

Fortunately, there few people she was afraid of. Even Ulfric. If she really wanted to hurt him, she could, and he wouldn’t be able to stop her until it was too late. And honestly, she was tempted, but the way she could hurt him was too far, even for her. Never like that.

* * *

At dawn, Jeanne and the thirty Stormcloak soldiers she was given rode to Morvunskar with intent. The soldiers surely did this for Ulfric, for the Stormcloak cause and, thus, Skyrim itself. Jeanne rode for the sake of her dignity, such as it was. She had embarrassed herself and Morvunskar would be the final place to reclaim the ability to hold her head up high, though none of them knew that. Probably for the best.

Once the fort came into view upon that cliffside, the small party dismounted. Jeanne, who had been given a spare officer’s uniform, led the men to the shadow of the Morvunskar. Each knew they would form a shield wall if things got rough. Mages couldn’t be underestimated; only their peers could accurately gage their ability and Jeanne was one of them.

However, all were surprised when from out of the fort came a Hagraven. As soon as it was in sight, the entirety of the Stormcloak party raised shields and scrunched together as tight as a Nibenese corset. Jeanne had never fought a Hagraven, neither could any of her shield-siblings, but they had heard stories. No one had a good story of fighting one of these beasts.

However, none of them could’ve prepared them for the words that came from its wretched mouth.

“Jeanne! Darling!” it gave what could be considered a cheer if one could gage joy from a Hagraven, “I've been waiting for you to return, to consummate our love!”

Of all the thing Jeanne could laugh at if it weren’t her, this could be one of them. She drunkenly got engaged to a Hagraven? She could feel the judgement from her fellow Stormcloaks staring daggers at her. At this point, Jeanne wanted to dig a hole so deep, she would end up in Akavir. At least then, she would never need to deal with this ridiculous situation.

“Um, actually,” Jeanne stuttered, “I was hoping to get the ring back.”

“What?” the Hagraven screeched, “You want it for that hussy Esmerelda, with the dark feathers, don't you? I won't let her have you!”

As the Hagraven charged, the necromancers finally showed themselves. Jeanne suspect an alliance between the two parties, but that implied her drunken matrimony would be officiated by one of these and she was horrified at the thought. The Hagraven attempted to scratch through the shields to get at her now sober fiancé. In terror and disgust, Jeanne jammed her sword in the creature’s chest, joined by three other blades. It fell dead and Jeanne thanked the Divines the battle was as tame as it was.

Without their ally, Jeanne supposed the necromancers felt they could now rain fire and ice upon the Stormcloaks because that’s exactly what they started doing. They burnt the wooden shields, as thick as they were, and chilled the hardy Nord warriors. Their magic, though strong, was untrained. Even Jeanne, who was only tutored in their art, could tell they weren’t good wizards.

At Jeanne’s signal, five men followed her further from the shields’ path backwards. They drew bows and arrows and Jeanne summoned fire to her hand. They released their wrath onto the mages upon their rudimentary emplacements and their lack of armor made them easy prey for arrowheads and fireballs. Without the novices on the walls, they charged into the fort itself and met little resistance as the party entered the living chambers.

Jeanne led her men through the necromancers’ badly prepared defenses. It was clear these were far from battlemages, perhaps young idiots that thought themselves better than their peers at the college. They would learn they couldn’t do that in Eastmarch, though would probably take that lesson to Aetherius or whatever circle of Oblivion they swore allegiance to so they would gain this power.

Eventually, the party came upon an open chamber with a stairway that only went to a landing that went nowhere. However, on that landing was a portal to gods knew where. The necromancers were easy to dispatch in this chamber, but Jeanne got the feeling the portal was important.

“Divide into threw squads and sweep the fort for straggles,” Jeanne ordered her men, “I’m going to check out the portal.”

“Aye,” the soldiers replied.

As the Stormcloaks disbursed, Jeanne climbed the stairs and journeyed through the portal.

What was through it was surprising. It was a forest garden at night, lit by lanterns’ light, a mist of calm blanketing this strange realm. Jeanne couldn’t say where she was. The night sky was starless, but with ribbons of light strewn across it. This place was at once otherworldly and homely. She was worried as to her safety in a place she couldn’t even say she could recognize.

A path guided Jeanne through the garden. She found herself at a banquet table with people who looked blankly into nowhere. The only one that didn’t was an awfully familiar Breton man in a black robe: Sam Guevenne. Somehow, someway or another, Jeanne was certain he was behind all of this.

“You're here!” Sam greeted, “I was beginning to think you might not make it.”

“It was quite a trip,” Jeanne remarked, not hiding her distress, “Where are we?”

“I thought you might not remember your first trip here,” Sam smirked, “You had a big night. I think you've definitely earned the staff.”

Jeanne remembered the otherwise useless materials in her satchel. “I have all the things needed to repair it,” she said, picking them out of her bag.

“Oh, the Hagraven feather and so on,” Sam said in disinterest, “You can throw all those out. You see,”

And the Breton man before her was replaced with a figure of Daedric features. Horns and red and black skin armored to within an inch of his life. Should Jeanne had to guess, this was Sanguine, Daedric Prince of Debauchery. She should have known, especially with the name “Sam Guevenne.”

“I really just needed something to encourage you to go out into the world and spread merriment,” he explained, his voice turned distorted, “And you did just that! I haven't been so entertained in at least a hundred years.”

Jeanne couldn’t believe this. “So, all of this was just a prank?” she scorned.

“Just a prank? Just a prank?” Sanguine balked, “The Daedric Lord of Debauchery does not deal in mere ‘pranks’. This may have begun as a minor amusement, but it wasn't long before I realized you'd make a more interesting bearer of my not-quite-holy staff.”  
Sanguine held out a staff that looked as though a rose but was the size of any normal staff. This, if Jeanne was correct, was the Sanguine Rose, his own Daedric artifact. Jeanne studied the Daedric Princes often when she was younger and this would summon a Lesser Daedra to fight for her, a Xivilai, if she remembered correctly.

“Thanks, I guess,” she supposed. She could think of some that wouldn’t tolerate this artifact in her possession.

“My pleasure,” Sanguine bowed, “But I think it's time for you to go. No fun keeping you locked up in here with the staff.”

And just like that, Jeanne was back where she was, in Morvunskar. The soldiers hadn’t yet returned, so the Breton took this opportunity to loot the place. In one chest of things that belong to the now dead was a strange icosahedral crystal.

And all at once, Jeanne heard, “A new hand touches the beacon!”

Jeanne just looked at it disappointedly. One stupid Daedric something at a time.

* * *

Haelga was known throughout town as a “Dibellan artist” if that makes sense. She owned a bunkhouse that few ever went to because most believed her clientele were her lovers. Rumors from here to Ivarstead persisted of her “bedtime activities”, but Ravani knew that was simple untrue. She only had eyes for rich men, not everyone. Ravani kept track of her lovers just in case it was ever relevant blackmail material.

However, that seemed to be superfluous work. The simplest thing to do was to nick her statue of Dibella. It was a pretty coin, statuettes of this kind, and many of them weren’t used for mere worship. Even seeing Ravani walk out with it may jolt her senses. If that doesn’t work, fencing it and letting the week go by until Haelga goes insane from the ultimately futile search. She may be able to do it with her connections to the Thieves’ Guild.

But first, Haelga needed to know why this was happening to her. Ravani approached her at the front desk of the bunkhouse, where she could be found most of the day. The Nord woman with blonde hair and a blue dress looked upon the boyish Dunmer and sighed. Ravani reckoned she didn’t want to explain to another person she couldn’t stay the night.

“What did you want?” Haelga asked with the attitude of a tired child.

“I have a message from Brynjolf,” Ravani explained.

The Dibellan worshipper hardly perked up. “What does he want now?” she asked, “I already explained to him that you can't get blood from a stone.”

“This isn't about the money anymore,” the impromptu racketeer remarked, slowly putting a hand on her blade’s hilt.

Haelga looked more annoyed than frightened. “Look, I can't make the coin appear out of thin air,” she snapped, “Be reasonable. I'll pay next month.”

“We've run out of patience,” Ravani pushed. She knew it would take more than threats to squeeze blood from this stone.

“And so have I,” Haelga seethed, “What's the point of paying anyway? Your outfit can't even fend for itself. I could do better tossing the gold into the sewer. You can't scare me with your tough talk. I'm not paying you people a single coin.”

Ravani shrugged and went out the front door, likely making Haelga think she won. Then the Dunmer snuck in through the backdoor. She went into the upstairs and found the owner’s room, distinguished by numerous “Dibellan paraphernalia” about the setting, including the statuette. The thief took it into her bag and let part of it stick out, as the dimension didn’t quite align. When Haelga gasped, Ravani knew it had worked.

“Please!” the Dibellan worshiper begged, “Don't take the statue! It's the only thing of value I have left!”

“I have a message from Brynjolf,” Ravani repeated, taking the statuette out of her bag.

“You,” Haelga stuttered, “you have my statue! What are you going to do with it.”

“So, should I drop this statue down a well?” Ravani suggested, motioning the statuette towards the door. Really, she’d never do that; there’s no profit in that.

“Not Lady Dibella!” Haelga practically shrieked, “No, please! I can't lose her! I get the message. Here, take your gold. I hope you choke on it.”

The indebted business owner gathered gold into a sack and threw it at Ravani. She had to assume it was the right amount, but it was never just about the amount. She placed the statuette on the desk and left the building, content with her work. She knew she’d never be welcome in that establishment, but the fact that there was never an “again” proved she wasn’t exactly broken up about it.

The next indebted figure was Bersi Honey-Hand. He was the owner of the Pawned Prawn, the local general goods and pawn shop. He was known for his charitable contributions to the community, but the fact he was in debt means he played around with someone else’s money. Ravani always wondered why her pawned goods were bought for so cheap by him, beyond just her personality.

Ravani entered the establishment and found only Bersi there. He was a man with dark red hair around the sides of his head and wrapped around into his head into a beard. It was good that his wife wasn’t here; she likely wouldn’t be able to contain her smugness for telling him time and again how he shouldn’t be so generous.

“Ah, Ravani!” Bersi greeted, “Good to see you! So, can I interest you in anything today?”

Ravani was silent. She decided she couldn’t convince him with words to give over the money after their numerous interactions. Instead, there was something else she could do.

There was this Dwarven made urn in his possession. It was out for display for anyone. Whether this was out of pride or as a product to buy, who can say? Either way, Ravani approached it, feigning examining it, and batted it off its perch like a common house cat. It shattered on the ground and something that could never be made again was lost to the world. More importantly, Bersi was freaking out.

“No! That urn was priceless!” the man cried.

“That was from Brynjolf,” Ravani stated, “Get the message?”

Bersi looked with tears and a sense of betrayal in his eyes. “I can't believe you did that,” he spat, “You people are monsters! You demand payment for protection, and you can't even protect yourselves. Here, take your coin and tell Brynjolf to leave us alone.”

Like Haelga before him, the businessman gather gold into a pouch and gave it to Ravani. There was nothing personal to this, just business. Perhaps the weeks of terrible pricing colored her approach, but she wouldn’t do this if there wasn’t money in it. She never found pleasure in something she could do for money.

The final debtor was Keerava, the innkeeper of the Bee and the Barb. One would think a woman like her wouldn’t at all be in debt, especially like having a business giving people drink and food. However, anyone can get into debt, no matter their occupation. It’s getting out of debt that’s amazingly hard.

And again, she had something she couldn’t live without. Remember how Ravani gathered blackmail on Haelga? Well, she gathers blackmail on everyone. In Keerava’s case, she had a family back in Morrowind. A family farm they likely stole from another family, seeing as how she was an Argonian in traditionally Dunmer land. Ravani wasn’t one to feel anything for her people, but something sparked a need to do this.

The racketeer approached the Argonian barkeep, who looked thoroughly unimpressed. “Need something?” she asked the armed and armored woman.

“I have a message for you from Brynjolf,” Ravani explained.

It’s hard for outsiders to read Argonians, but Keerava’s displeasure was obvious. “I'll already told that buffoon that I'm not paying you people a single coin!” she spat.

“Maybe I should visit that farm in Morrowind,” the Dunmer suggested.

From disgust to disbelief. “How could you possibly know about,” Keerava gasped, |Please. My family means too much to me. Don't hurt them.”

Ravani picked up a stray coin on the counter and held it to her face. Keerava understood.

“Very well. Here. Take this back to Brynjolf and tell him he'll have no more trouble from me.”

Ravani got the money with a smile on her face. She was strangely proud of herself for this. Maybe she wasn’t so distant after all.


	4. Chapter 4

It was decided Jeanne’s party of Stormcloaks would layover in Windhelm instead of making the trip back to Whiterun. It was obviously closer, but they also agreed it was best to tell Ulfric himself of the news of Morvunskar. Well, at least Galmar or Yrsarald, ones who was close to the issue, as it was uncertain if Ulfric would even be aware of such a minor issue.

As they rode into Windelm’s shadow, they came upon great training fields of many blue-clad soldiers. They wielded war hammers, axes, bows, swords, and shields and many trained in different ways to wield them. They would clearly number more than the warband of before and be by far and away better trained. This would be Ulfric’s answer to the Imperial Legion by far.

Entering the City of King’s itself, there wasn’t much change. The hawks like gargoyles watched the citizens equally, the strong and the weak and the Nords and the not. Folk went about their days as best they could, against the cold and toil of the day. There were many thing Jeanne felt was wrong with this city, but their strength to go about their day in such in an inhospitable city wasn’t one of them.

Upon entering the Palace of Kings, Jeanne chose to be as loud as was appropriate. “Hail the conquerors of Morvunskar!” she declared to the room with pride.

The entire courtroom look unamused. Jeanne shouldn’t have been surprised. The banquet table was home to many a Jarl wishing to return to their holds to rule over them once more. Since her last visit, Jarl Laila Law-Giver of the Rift and her family. The treaty with the Legion made Jarl Laila surrender her hold to the Empire once more and it was likely a sore spot for her.

From out of the war room poked out the Stormcloak commanders. Ysrarald and Galmar took note of the Jeanne and party’s return and signaled for their leader to meet them.

Jeanne turned to her men and told them, “Go to Candlehearth Hall. I’ll reimburse you for the drinks.” They nodded and left.

The adopted Nord went to the war room and met her fellow officers. She was certain it was about Morvunskar and her inappropriate outburst. However, it had an awkward air to it, like parents disciplining their children. And not a word was spoken yet.

“Hawksly,” Galmar said, “I admire you’re initiative.”

And before he could say another word, Ysrarald butted in. “But we had our own plans for the fort,” he frigidly stated, “We would’ve sent our own force.”

Jeanne knew damn well that was stupid. “It’s been around two months since it’s been in our sights,” she recounted, “Without the Legion’s immediate threat, we should have been able to take it without issue. I don’t know who you sent, but they were surely the most incompetent soldiers I’ve never met.”

Ysrarald’s anger was evident. “You went with a hundred men and only returned with thirty,” he snapped, “You don’t have the right to call them fools.”

That was even more idiotic. “I left Whiterun with thirty,” Jeanne explained, “Ask Hjornskar if you have any doubt.”

The commanders were surprised. Ysrarald looked like such a thing were preposterous and Galmar looked upon his fellow with suspicion. Jeanne suspected she walked into something in progress, something quite stupid.

She continued, “The necromancers were weak. Whoever died at their hands were far from shield-siblings. What did you do, send the recruits?”

“How dare you insult me?!” Ysrarald snapped, “Leave this hold and never return or I’ll have your head on a pike!”

The head of a battle axe soon came between Jeanne and the fuming commander. “I was wondering where those trainees went,” Galmar remarked, “Do you know their names? Vonkil, Mantorn, Riklaith, Anitla and so many others. I gave you the task of clearing that fort. I can see you never deserved to hold power over them.”

Ysrarald appeared panicked. He’d been caught with his hands in the cookie jar. Such a petty reaction to such a serious crime. Galmar ripped decorations off Ysrarald’s armor until all that was left was cloth and leather. Then he started removing the armor until his skin was exposed to the world. You couldn’t tell he were a Stormcloak, just a shameful man near naked.

“Pick up one of those uniforms and go out on patrol,” Galmar ordered, “Never return to this room until you’ve saved as many lives as the ones you wasted.”

Ysrarald did as he was told. He donned a blue uniform and went out into patrol. Such a fate to fall upon him, but he deserved it. Jeanne could’ve lost her life to the ice wraith what felt like a lifetime ago; she couldn’t understand why would send someone on something more dangerous on a novice.

Galmar turned to the adopted Nord. “I see you’re wearing that uniform again,” he remarked.

“I know,” Jeanne said with shortness, “but I had my own reason for doing this. I don’t know if I wanna be a Stormcloak again.”

That was met with a nod. Galmar seemed to understand. “I get that you don’t want to go into battle again,” he remarked, “but there are other ways to serve the cause.” That perked Jeanne’s interest. He continued, “Laila Law-Giver desires to see her hold’s safety upheld. The new Jarl, Maven Black-Briar, is an opportunist that would sell one of her children for becoming High Queen of Skyrim.”

Jeanne had heard such an unfavorable reputation. It was how most outsiders viewed fiefdoms of High Rock, a rabble of disorganized lords and ladies each vying to be kings and queens of all they surveyed. Jeanne say irony at a Breton acting like a Nord overthrowing a Nord acting like a Breton.

Galmar continued, “We believe she’s moving troops into Skyrim. She’s having Legion forces march into the Rift and take unused roads to reach Solitude through our territory.”

Jeanne was quite interested. “Can you prove this?” she asked.

“Falkreath patrols found a Legion regiment taking the north road around Lake Ilinalta going west,” Galmar recounted, “No sovereign nation would abide this, and we shouldn’t, but we’ve been awaiting the Legion’s counterattack and we’re certain this would provoke this. They can rely on our boarder guard to say they didn’t take the Pale Pass, but we might be able to prove they’re moving they move through the Rift.”

With that thought, Jeanne thought of something pressing. “Wouldn’t this also prove they’re moving troops through Morrowind?” she asked, “Doesn’t the road out of the Rift lead to House Redoran’s territory, which is still in the control of the Dunmer?”

Galmar raised his eyebrow in interest. “I’m not sure,” he admitted, “Geography isn’t something I’ve studied, but that would be something House Redoran would want to know, wouldn’t it?” He returned to the topic at had with, “So, will you aid us?”

Jeanne knew she could very well spend a lot of time in Riften without learning anything, but that wasn’t a bad thing in her mind. She needed to be in one place for a while. She couldn’t wander as she did forever. She wanted a hearth, children in play on the floor, a lover’s embrace, and a ring on her finger. She wanted Mara’s blessing for a long and happy life. Maybe going to city in Skyrim where Her temple could be found would be the beginning.

“I’ll do it,” she stated.

Whether she’d find what duty, or her heart, demanded was beyond the point. She had a little hope for the life she wanted.

* * *

Back to the Ratways, Ravani went, and back to the Ragged Flagon. She had all the money in hand and not an ounce of guilt in her soul. There were people you don’t get indebted to, and a major criminal organization was one of them. To her, that was their own doing, getting themselves into the situation they did. If they wanted to be smart, don’t get involved with hardened criminals.

But there was a common theme in their insults. It was the belief that the guild couldn’t sustain for long. That may be true, but they were hardly in a position to criticize. Still, a criticism must be taken into consideration. When you call Haelga of lose morals, it’s because she has sex for multiple men of wealth and likely stealing some of it. It doesn’t matter if men laid in your bed because they bought your services; you could call it how it was, and those debtors may have a point. Ravani would have to see it for herself.

“So, job's done,” Brynjolf remarked with a grin on his face as she approached, “and you even brought the gold. Best of all you did it clean. I like that. Dumping bodies and keeping the guards quiet can be expensive.”

“Here's what they owed us,” Ravani stated, handing over the gold. She hadn’t had the opportunity to count it, but because she hadn’t been given amounts, she thought it wasn’t much to him.

“Well done,” Brynjolf remarked as he took the money, “And it would seem I owe you something in return. Here you go, I think you'll find these quite useful.”

Instead of gold, Brynjolf handed over three potions. While one was a healing potion, the other two were thieves’ tools. A potent of frost aversion and a philter of light feet. The potent made one feel the cold more severely, to the point of freezing to death, and the philter made one’s steps weight as much as a feather. Brynjolf had some interesting gifts.

“What's next, then?” Ravani asked.

“Judging from how well you handled those shopkeepers,” Brynjolf stated, prided in his tone, “I'd say you've done more than simply prove yourself. We need people like you in our outfit.”

This was exactly what she wanted from Brynjolf, but was it for the right reason? “If there's more gold where that came from, I'm in,” she said with a tone she meant to remind him.

Brynjolf gave a mighty laugh. “That's the spirit!” he cheered, raising a mug to such an effect, “Larceny's in your blood, the telltale sign of a practiced thief. I think you'll do more than just fit in around here.”

All that was good, but she was warry for beforementioned reasons. “Before we go, I have to ask.”

The gentleman thief noticed the concern. “What's on your mind?” he asked.

“Word is your outfit isn't doing well,” Ravani inquired, “True?”

The look on Brynjolf’s face made it clear he didn’t want to admit that. “We've run into a rough patch lately,” he admitted, “but it's nothing to be concerned about. Tell you what. You keep making us coin and I'll worry about everything else. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough,” Ravani agreed. She knew it wouldn’t be just his problem forever, but she wasn’t going to argue right now. That would come later, when he was likely dead or missing and all his piers had to pick up the slack.

“Now if there are no more questions,” Brynjolf continued, “how about following me and I'll show you what we're all about.”

Ravani nodded and he led her behind the bar. She was brought to a corner with a bookcase, which seemed odd. Brynjolf triggered some mechanism and the bookcase moved away to reveal a secret passageway. The oldest trick in the book, Ravani noted, but few had the resources to pull it off. Perhaps this was built during better times.

Brynjolf led her into an open chamber, a converted cistern Ravani would have to say. There were beds and banners around her, the banners having a simple circle in a diamond on it. The chamber had numerous things that made it clear people lived and trained here, like training dummies and cooking pots. Ravani got the impression people lived here.

“Mercer?” the gentleman thief called over, “This is the one I was talking about, our new recruit.”

From behind a desk came a man some would call a silver fox. No, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but not a literal fox, nor a fox person. What I mean is that despite his age, he was a ruggedly handsome man. He clearly treated himself well in his age, especially since he was in a struggling thieves’ guild living in a bloody sewer. How he could be wasn’t something Ravani could say.

“This better not be another waste of the Guild's resources, Brynjolf,” this Mercer barked at Brynjolf before turning to Ravani, “Before we continue, I want to make one thing perfectly clear. If you play by the rules, you walk away rich. You break the rules and you lose your share. No debates, no discussion, you do what we say, when we say.”

“Do I make myself clear?”

Everything about that gave Ravani a burst of laughter. “Rules? We're thieves,” she questioned with a chuckle, “What's the point of rules?”

Mercer’s grouchy demeanor didn’t change much. “I'll let that comment go because you're new here,” he growled, “Ask things out of turn again, and we have a problem. Now, are we clear on all of this?”

Yes, it was clear. It was clear that Ravani and him wouldn’t always agree with him on everything. She had fought in two armies and was awfully familiar with being in this dynamic. He held some authority while she was nothing but a promising recruit. She would have to bide her time to question him on any of these matters.

“Transparently,” Ravani stated. For now. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to see your best paid jobs.”

“Wait a moment,” Brynjolf interjected, “You’re not going to want one of the big jobs. Stick to petty larceny, not the big ones.

While the concern was understood, Ravani had little need for it. She’d spent some forty-odd years alive, and most of it was spent most of it a criminal. She didn’t know what one would consider a big job, but it had to be more than what she could accomplish on her own. That was the point of being in a guild, wasn’t it? Or was it just an excuse to take your money while offering infantile benefits.

“You claim this recruit possesses an aptitude for our line of work,” Mercer rebutted with a smirk, “If so, let her prove it.”

And just like that, she agreed with the man. It may be dangerous, and it may be much for a new recruit, but Ravani likely could do it. She wasn’t one to simply be happy doing grunt work for her entire life; she wanted to do the big jobs. She was always hungry for things like these, especially if it sounded like a barrel full of gold.

* * *

She should’ve seen it coming. The letter was proof someone was watching. If fact, a little voice told her what she was doing was reckless and irresponsible, but she just wanted an amoral person to kill. Stendarr as her witness, she would never kill an innocent life. All Mikaela’s victims deserved death. Everyone deserved death, sooner or later.

She went to sleep with the letter of a black hand saying “We know” in her pocket. She'd slain Grelod the Kind for a boy who ran away from her orphanage. Grelod deserved to die sooner than most did. The payment didn’t matter; it was a piece of fine silverware easily pawned, no matter if it were an heirloom. Grelod deserved death sooner than most.

However, Mikaela didn’t anticipate being carried off in the night. Her pliable mattress was gone, replaced with hard-wooden floor. She felt like she’d been riding from one dawn to another. The very air she breathed was different, a humid waft that was more unbearable than the chill of Windhelm. And that’s before she opened her eyes to find it wasn’t even the same building.

And noticed the shrouded figure in the rafters, brandishing a knife.

“Sleep well?” a woman’s voice, a voice like the Sea of Ghosts, came from the figure.

“Who are you?” Mikaela questioned, a hand on her blade. She was eventually going to kill this woman, it was just a matter of when.

“Who I am really isn't as important as what I am,” the figure deflected, “And what I am is an admirer. Of sorts.” In the hand that didn’t wield a knife was the silverware Mikaela was rewarded with.

“You know about that?” she questioned. If the Legion, nor the Stormcloaks, could figure out it was her, how did this shadow woman do it?

“Half of Skyrim knows,” the figure stated, “Old hag gets butchered in her own orphanage? Things like that tend to get around. Oh, but don't misunderstand. I'm not criticizing. It was a good kill. Old crone had it coming. And you saved a group of urchins, to boot. Ah, but there is a slight problem.”

Mikaela didn’t say a word. She could see kinship with this shadow woman, with the pretense for death and all. However, she could also see the conflict at hand.

“You see,” the shadow woman continued, “that little Aretino boy was looking for the Dark Brotherhood. For me, and my associates. Grelod the Kind was, by all rights, a Dark Brotherhood contract. A kill that you stole. A kill you must repay.”

“You want me to murder someone else? Who?” Mikaela questioned. There were those she would have more difficulty killing than others. Those were few, but she still wouldn’t kill them for the shadow woman.

“Well now. Funny you should ask,” the woman smirked through her shrouded form, “If you turn around, you'll notice my guests.

Mikaela turned around and found three figures, all bound with bags over their heads. One was a Nord man with a sword on his belt. Another was a Nord woman in common clothes. The third was a man with a Khajiit tail and wore fine clothes. All three likely deserved to die.

“I've collected them from,” the shadow woman continued, “well, that's not really important. The here and now. That's what matters. You see, there's a contract out on one of them, and that person can't leave this room alive. But which one? Go on, see if you can figure it out. Make your choice. Make your kill, I just want to observe and admire.”

The question wasn’t who had the contract. Not for Mikaela. It was which one deserved to die. Anyone can hire an assassin to kill someone; it was a matter of whether they deserved to die right now. That was what she pondered as she stood over them, trying to study their body language to see if they carry themselves like sinners, the wanna ways they could.

The Khajiit, clearly feeling Mikaela over him, reacted. “Whoever this is, clearly we got off on the wrong foot,” he remarked, “Ah, but no worries. This is not the first time I have been bagged and dragged.”

With an attitude and history like that, he clearly had someone who wanted to kill him. The people that drag you to places like this aren’t savory people. Clearly, he was a criminal of some sort and people had tried to kill him before. He was destined to be killed by someone in life, but the question still remained: Did he deserve to die now?

“Who are you?” Mikaela whispered so as not to alert the other captives.

“Ah,” the Khajiit spoke in that Khajiiti voice, “Vasha, at your service, Obtainer of goods, taker of lives, and defiler of daughters. Have you not heard of me? Perhaps I will have my people carve my name in your corpse as a reminder.”

Perhaps he did deserve to die now. A self-proclaimed “defiler of daughters” was someone Mikaela wished to kill. She’d seen men like that before; she cut their throats as their victims ran.

Of course, there were two other people. One of them might deserve to die sooner. So, Mikaela moved to the next victim, the woman.

“Cowards!” the woman screamed, “Stealing a woman from her home! For shame!”

Another kind of person Mikaela had met, though they were more annoying that sinners. “Who are you?” she inquired.

“None of your damned business who I am!” the woman spat back, “If you're going to kill me, just do it already! As Mara is my witness, if I didn't have this hood on right now, I would spit right in your face.”

People like this woman annoyed Mikaela. They can be facing a Thalmor invasion from the south and not believe it’s a threat as long as they get what they want. For all Mikaela knew, she was contracted for death by her husband because he didn’t want to divorce this bitch, but the question would remained: Did she deserve to die now?

Mikaela couldn’t be sure. So, she went for the last person: the Nord with the sword.

“What did I do?” he spoke as a floorboard gave away Mikaela’s approach, “Please, whatever it is, I'm sorry.”

Most beg for forgiveness by the end, but they may deserve to live longer for it. “Who are you?” Mikaela asked.

“My name is Fultheim,” he said with no pride, stuttering even, “I overheard what you were saying to those other people, and I want to say I deserve to die before them. Just kill me; I’ve lived over thirty years longer than I should.”

Mikaela was surprised by his willingness. However, she knew he likely didn’t have a contract on him. The sword on his belt was a Blade’s katana, meaning he had to be amongst that order. She still had some respect for them, especially with the Thalmor wanting to hunt them, the Empire not willing to protect them, and no Dragonborn able to lead them. However, like the others here, Mikaela must ask: Did he deserve to die now?

Mikaela made her decision and killed who she believe deserved to die with no mercy of the gods. It didn’t matter who it was; they laid dead somewhere with no one to mourn them.

* * *

Rena had been waiting since yesterday for the paperwork for the indentured servitude to come through. She met the qualifications; the servant was of provincial age, Rena was of a noble family, she had trade that earned the needed money. It was just a matter of waiting, which wasn’t an easy feat with her transfer coming through tomorrow.

The reason Rena was doing this was because Alary looked to be running her life into the ground. She was young, but she was losing time to find some stability in her life. If Rena could guide her to a better life, she could sleep at night knowing she didn’t just let such potential go to waste. She wasn’t about to let Alary throw away her life on crime.

It was closer to evening, with the orange unset hitting the shingled roofs, when Rena saw someone she didn’t expect. It was Skathi Wolf-Runner, tall and dark as always. They hadn’t seen each other in months for certain and Rena could use a bit of kinship during these times. At least she was better company than Legionnaires, and the townsfolk didn’t talk to Imperials in uniform.

“Wolf-Runner!” Rena called from across the streets, “It’s good to see you again!”

Skathi practically tripped over the shout. She turned to see Rena and her wide eyes narrowed to their original width and a smile on her face. Rena wasn’t certain how many friends the Nord woman had, but she certainly needed a few. And she especially could earn a lover with her looks. Rena knew height, muscle and freckles weren’t always someone’s idea of handsome, not even her own, but Skathi was enough to earn a few loves.

“Rena,” Skathi said sweetly, “you scare me with that voice.”

The wild woman came over and pulled Rena into a strong embrace. She used one arm, the other on her bow slung over her shoulder, but she surely had the strength of four in that one arm. Rena could feel that she had gain some weight since last they met, but that was all the better. That was a pettier reason she believed Skathi deserved a lover: she was great at hugs.

Leaving the embrace, Rena asked, “How have things been?”

“Well, I’m joining the Dawnguard,” Skathi remarked, “Vampire hunters or something in the old fort in Dayspring Canyon. I decided to join up.”

Rena was confused by that. There hadn’t been any word while Rena was at work that such a guild existed. She saw some folk in black and brown brigandines passing through, but no vampires were abounding. Seemed strange.

“Now, why would you join a group like that?” Rena asked, “I mean, I’ve never heard of them, and I’ve been here three months.”

Skathi gave a confused and concerned look. “I figured I needed a guild,” she admitted, “There aren’t a lot of things I’m good at and I’ve killed a few vampires before. I figure it would be better this way than some of these other guys.”

Rena thought that was odd. Skathi could surely work as a hunter in her mind, though she’d have to observe the laws while doing so. Even if it was adventuring that was her calling, the Companions were an acceptable guild to join. Granted, there wasn’t a Fighters’ Guild in Skyrim anymore, which would’ve been advantageous for Skathi’s skills set. But still, the Companions weren’t far off.

“And what of the Companions of Jorrvaskr?” Rena asked.

“That folk don’t have such a good reputation, do they?” Skathi balked, though her soft voice wasn’t exactly the sort of voice that could, “The fact they condemned Vignar White-Mane gain him more support as Jarl than was likely intended.”

Rena chuckled at the absurdity. She supposed they were no Fighters’ Guild. If they didn’t support a local lord, it was worth the opinion of thousands, more so than there were citizens under that lord’s reign. The Companions make a stink and it actually supports their enemies? What terrible reputation do you have that stating your opinion informs others?

“Well, I hope you find fortune and favor in the Dawnguard,” Rena blessed.

“Whose your friend there?” came and unfortunately familiar voice from The Bee and The Barb.

Skathi turned in the voice’s direction. “Who is that?” she asked.

Rena sighed. “Ravani Faren,” she explained, “meet Skathi Wolf-Runner.”

She wasn’t enthused for her least trusted acquaintance to meet who was likely the most trusting. Ravani was a rogue and mercenary to an uncomfortable degree. Skathi was just trying to make it in this world and likely didn’t need such a corrupting influence on her as Ravani. Also, one was a Dunmer and the other a Nord; they haven’t had the best history, especially recently.

“Pleased to meet you, I suppose,” Skathi greeted awkwardly, holding out a hand to shake.

Ravani approached the wild woman. “Favor the bow, eh?” she remarked, taking that hand in her own, “A woman of quality, in my book.”

The following conservation sent the three of them into a long discussion about archery. Techniques, designs, strange moments, and all. Rena thought it odd that these three women of such different lives could united over bows. And it came from Ravani, the one who only approached you if she wanted something from you. Rena was a little worried she’d then ask for a loan or something akin to that.

But that didn’t happen. The three went into the night, going from topic to topic, catching dinner in between. Skathi’s awkwardness melted away into comfort around her new friend. Rena let her guard down for once around others, especially one she didn’t trust all that much. But Ravani didn’t change. Rena wondered if that meant she was always amiable or constantly lying. Could be either, but Rena wouldn’t be able to know.

“I’m telling you,” Ravani remarked, “Orcish tradition doesn’t know shit about weapons.”

“At least they’ve got good armor,” Skathi defended.

“That looked like it need to go back in the forge!” Ravani snarked back, “I wouldn’t wear it if I was paid.”

“Oh, like you’d wear heavy armor,” Skathi remarked. Both of them preferred light armor, as Rena observed.

“Depends on how much money you got,” Ravani stated with utmost certainty.

“But not Orcish armor!” Skathi reminded her.

It soon came time to say goodbye. Rena had to set out in the morning, Skathi wanted to leave before midnight, and Ravani claim she was tired. They said their goodbyes and Skathi gave them the blessing of Kynareth at their backs. Rena was flattered, but Ravani was about as phased as if you said the sky was blue. Ravani told them on to die; she wanted to get some more money out of them. Rena wasn’t certain she was joking.

As they disbursed for the night, a courier from the Jarl’s officer approached Rena. It was a letter of indentured servitude.

* * *

It was a long day’s travel, but Skathi did come upon the entrance to Dayspring Canyon where Fort Dawnguard was found. She needed to abandon Kili at the canyon’s entrance, as it wasn’t large enough to fit a horse through. To her regret, Skathi had to tie up Kili so she wouldn’t run away. It’s what most horse owners would do, but she hoped to find a make the way in a lot more horse friendly. Fortunately, there were two other horses left there, so she was certain someone would come back for them.

The Dragonborn entered the canyon to behold the beauty sight of it in the evening. The autumn leaves caught the sunset in their graces in that simple sight of nature’s magic. Snow stood comfortably at the height of the waterfalls. Skathi had only know this majesty of sights warmer than they were once before. Once.

On the side of the path through was a young man, one much like any in Skyrim. He look a tad nervous about something before realizing Skathi was there. Few times had someone been pleased to see Skathi without knowing who she was.  
“Oh, hey there!” he greeted, “You here to join the Dawnguard, too?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” Skathi nodded, “You?”

“Truth is, I'm a little nervous,” he admitted shamefully, “I've never done anything like this before. I hope you don't mind if I walk up with you.”

The Dragonborn shrugged. The two began to walk together. To be honest, Skathi had some anxiety being alone with other people, but she hardly had any contact with anyone for around ten years; she had a reason. He was just nervous, and she wasn’t sure that was a good trait for a vampire hunter.

“Hey, uh, don't tell Isran I was afraid to meet him by myself,” the young man asked, “Not the best first impression for a new vampire hunter, I guess. You've probably killed lots of vampires, huh? I'm sure Isran will sign you right up. Not sure he'll take me. I hope so.”

At least he was aware of how disappointing he would be.

And before them was revealed a massive fort, larger than some cities. The towers were taller than the waterfalls and as thick as masons. The entirety was made of solid stone. Whoever built this made it to last beyond their lifetimes.

“That must be it. Fort Dawnguard,” the young man remarked in awe, “Wow. Bigger than I expected.” He looked around and said in confusion, “Where is everybody? This place looks almost deserted.”

True enough. As high as the ramparts were, Skathi was surprised she saw nothing. In the storms of the Jeralls, she could track falcon from as high as they slew. Here, she didn’t spot a single patrol. Had the Dawnguard so few members that they couldn’t even keep their own fort?

As they went through the path, Skathi found the Orc that had recruited her, operating that crossbow of his. Crossbows hardly appealed to her, as they seemed for those who couldn’t use a bow. Skathi was an archer and the crossbow had no appeal to her. Perhaps hold guards and the Legion itself may adopt them. No matter, she would always use a bow. More important to her was learning the Orc’s name.

Eventually, they came upon the entrance to the fort. At this, the young man remarked, “I guess this is it. Wish me luck.”

He had reason to worry for his place in the Dawnguard. Skathi wasn’t. She had slain dragons, she slew the ancient vampire master Movarth, she had fought through hundreds of numerous animals, monsters, and automatons. Additionally, she found the name of Isran familiar, so she might need to forgo the whatever trials needed to enter the guild. She had no reason to worry. Still, she was a little nervous to be in unfamiliar place. This was just her.

She entered the fort and beheld the awfully familiar Isran talking to an unfamiliar Vigilant of Stendarr. She understood who the Vigilants were, and they had their suspicions of her, but why would this one be here?

“Why are you here, Tolan?” Isran in his familiarly deep voice asked, “The Vigilants and I were finished with each other a long time ago.”

“You know why I'm here,” the Vigilant, Tolan, retorted, “The Vigilants are under attack everywhere. The vampires are much more dangerous than we believed.”

“And now you want to come running to safety with the Dawnguard, is that it?” Isran growled, “I remember Keeper Carcette telling me repeatedly that Fort Dawnguard is a crumbling ruin, not worth the expense and manpower to repair. And now that you've stirred up the vampires against you, you come begging for my pardon?”

Tolan sighed. “Isran, Carcette is dead. The Hall of the Vigilants, everyone, they're all dead. You were right, we were wrong. Isn't that enough for you?” His submission turned to anger.

The vampire hunter looked grimly embarrassed. “Yes, well,” he replied, “I never wanted any of this to happen. I tried to warn all of you,” he stopped what he was saying and sighed. “I am sorry, you know.”

Isran was shook from this conversation when he noticed Skathi. He approached her and asked, “So, who are you? What do you want?”

Skathi herself was confused. “Do you not remember me?” she asked in disbelief, “You and I slew Movarth.”

“Oh,” the vampire hunter replied in an emotionless tone, “I don’t remember faces. I do remember voices though.”

That was far. To him, it was probably another day, save the demonstration of the Voice. You would always remember someone using such unfamiliar magic, no matter how mad your life was. Then again, maybe he meant that he literally could remember faces and distinguished people by their voices. That would be fair too.

“Well,” Skathi interjected leave this awkward conversation and back onto the subject of vampires, “I heard you were looking for vampire hunters.”

“You heard right,” Isran perked up at the discussion of vampire hunting, “I'm glad word's finally starting to get around. But that means it won't be long before the vampires start to take notice as well.”

The vampire hunter turned to his former comrade and said, “Tolan, tell her about, what was it, Dimhollow?”

“Yes, that's it. Dimhollow Crypt,” Tolan confirmed, “Brother Adalvald was sure it held some long-lost vampire artifact of some kind. We didn't listen to him any more than we did Isran. He was at the Hall when it was attacked,” he trailed off at the thought.

“That's good enough for me,” the vampire hunter replied, “Go see what the vampires were looking for in this Dimhollow Crypt. With any luck, they'll still be there.” He turned to the general direction Skathi was standing, “Feel free to poke around the fort and take what you need. There isn't much yet, but you're welcome to anything you can use.”

Skathi didn’t think she could find anything to interest her. She brought her own weapons and armor, so why would she need anything here? They were probably worse if the Dawnguard’s resources were tight. This operation looked worse and worse by the moment.

“We'll meet you at Dimhollow,” Tolan said, “It's the least I can do to avenge my fallen comrades.”

We? Skathi looked around to find a Vigilant she might’ve missed but didn’t expect to find what she did. A woman close to thirty autumns old with raven hair and pale skin. She wore leather armor and had an axe on her belt. These trappings weren’t familiar to Skathi, nor the age, but she never forgot the face of her sister.

“Agata?”


	5. Chapter 5

Agata wasn’t sure what to make of this. A tall woman, she believed, in scale armor had correctly guessed her name. The expression on this woman’s face was of disbelief and clumsy joy. She didn’t recognize her, but there was something faintly familiar about her. The raven hair was much like her own, though hers was in braids instead of Agata’s free falling hair.

“It’s me,” the tall woman said in a nearly quivering voice, “Skathi.”

Skathi? At first, that name was a ghost of memory; forgotten, but still there. Then Agata remember all those times she played dress up with Skathi, her little sister. Even in her wildest dreams, be them fantasies or nightmares, she never expected that little girl would become this woman. Especially not after the incident with the Jarl’s men.

A whole whirlwind of emotions hit her. First was the crying joy of finding long lost, maybe dead, family alive again. Second was the rage of grief, for Agata would sometimes blame Skathi for what happened to her parents. Finally, there was wariness, as Molag Bal’s threat was far worse than what she could comprehend. She was both overjoyed she still had some family left, but also afraid that something bad would happen very soon.

Molag be damned. The Jarl’s man be damned. Agata pulled Skathi into a hug as tight as she could managed. Her sister, obviously surprised, took a moment to hug back. After a little while, they broke away. There would be time to catch up later, and there were serious thing to discuss.

“Sorry,” Agata said to Tolan and Isran, who were clearly serious about the whole vampire menace, “Don’t stop on our account.”

Isran looked unphased. “Tolan, I don't think that's a good idea,” he referred to his plan to go to Dimhollow alone, “You Vigilants were never trained for-. “

“I know what you think of us,” Tolan shot back, “You think we're soft, that we're cowards. You think our deaths proved our weakness. Stendarr grant that you do not have to face the same test and be found wanting. I'm going to Dimhollow Crypt. Perhaps I can be of some small assistance to you.”

As the Vigilant began to leave, he approached Agata. “We’re leaving,” he said, firmly.

“You may be,” the poor Nord replied, “but I’m not.” To his confused expression, she explained with only, “This is my sister,” pointing to Skathi, “I haven’t seen her in over a decade. I’m staying with her.”

In truth, Agata was only with Tolan for protection from Molag Bal. He faintly knew this, as he had heard her story, but now was different. Staying with Skathi and the Dawnguard meant more than just one person to look after her and a fort to protect her. Mostly though, she could be around her sister again after so long and she wanted to spend as much time as possible with her.

“What about Molag Bal’s threat?” Tolan asked in a whisper, “What if-.”

“I didn’t even know I had a sister until the past five minutes,” she interrupted, “I can’t give that up again.”

Tolan, with grimly regretful acceptance, left the fort. He probably hated that she was being so willfully ignorant, but Agata needed this. She hadn’t had home or family in so long and she wanted it again. Skathi was dead before, but now she was alive again. Agata wouldn’t trade this for anything in life.

“With that over with,” Skathi remarked, “Isran, do you think you could find a way for use to bring our horses in?”

The vampire hunter looked confused. “Durak can show you how to get your horse in,” he stated.

“That the Orc?” Skathi asked.

Isran nodded and Skathi respectful left the fort, the vampire hunter taking a young man who’d been in the shadows aside to show how to use the crossbow. When her sister stepped out, Agata quickly caught up with her. This seemed like later enough to catch up with her.

“So,” Agata asked, not sure what to say, “what have you been up too?”

Skathi had this dumb smile her sister remembered from whenever she was let off her lesson to play. “Well, a lot,” she explained, “I’ve been trying to get a trade, but I don’t have the skills or patience for a lot of them, so I came here. I’m quite the experienced archer. What about you?”

Agata was glad to talk to Skathi again. “I’ve taken whatever jobs I could,” she recounted, “I’m pretty handy with an axe. You’d be surprised how many jobs just need experience with an axe to qualify.”

“Not so many with a bow,” her sister chuckled, “It’s hunting or soldiering, that’s all I could get. And there’s a lot of rules for hunting I can’t remember.”

As they left the sisters left the fort, Durak was awaiting them. He looked patient as can be. Agata was surprised, given her experience. The only patient Orcs she’d met were traveling merchants. Mind you, she’d been in every Orc Stronghold and Nord settlement west of the Throat of the Word. This was a surprise.

“You two left your horses at the valley entrance,” he remarked, “You’ll have to learn how to lead them through the crevasse.”

The two followed closely as he lead them back to the entrance. When they got there, Tolan’s horse was gone. Agata regretted him leaving, as she was certain he would always try to protect her. She wasn’t certain she could be safe without her. Still though, having a sister with archery skills was a smart way of protecting yourself.

They took the leads on their horses and Durak began his instructions. “Slowly bring their heads level with their tails. Have them bend their knees and lead them through, slowly.

The two began doing as he instructed, but Skathi’s horse was being wilder than Agata’s. “Come on, Kili, come one,” the tall woman cooed.

Agata’s surprised was quick. “You named your horse after mother?” she asked.

Skathi took her attention away from the horse to face her sister. “Yeah,” she admitted like a child doing a bad thing, “Is that alright?”

“It’s fine, Skathi,” her big sister nodded.

Big sister. She hadn’t thought about herself in that way for a while. She hadn’t thought about family in a long time. She’d missed it.

* * *

At midnight, Ravani was swimming in Lake Honrich. It was a bad idea to swim during the winter nights, but as long as she avoided the twilight hours, she would be safe from the worst of it. A mix of alchemy and swimmers’ techniques kept her alive, but she couldn’t linger, nor did she intend to. She wasn’t swimming for fun, after all.

Ravani was tasked with infiltrating Goldenglow Estate, a honey farm on the lake. She was to send a message to the owners by destroying some of their beehives, as well as clearing out their safe. The funny thing was, the guild had tried before and failed. In wasn’t like they sent an amateur to do this; the Dumner’s predecessor was one of their best thieves. It was proof that they had a lot riding on her, and she might not get away with her life.

Of course, the possibility of death didn’t keep her from speculating, as it never does. A message such as these is never so petty as “Remember to get some milk on the way home.” No, this was serious business. Business like the Black-Briar meadery. Mead needs honey to make it, didn’t it? All crime in Riften can be traced back to the Black-Briars, after all.

But no matter, Ravani still had to get into the estate. Goldenglow was situated on top of a series of small islands. The island the beehives were on was elevated so that there was only way onto it from the water and it was shared with a bridge protected by guard and torchlight. Ravani would go back to that later; for this and other reasons, burning the hives would have to be saved for the end. First was the safe.

The safe would have to be in the main building. Now, walking through the front door would be a terrible idea, but there was an alternative. Vex, Ravani’s predecessor, said that the sewer system was a viable option. Going through that would lead to the estate’s backdoor and would be a lot warming than a lake afflicted with winter’s chill. Especially when the only clothing on her skin was meant to keep her effects on her body. Yeah, this is how she learned to swim; she didn’t know any way else.

Ravani found the sewer entrance and dropped in, letting the humid, vile air swarm her. The floor may be wretched with shit and piss, but at least it was warm. The skeever may be a deterrent to any positive thoughts, as well as the traps that made it clear that the landowners were expect company, but at least it wasn’t cold. Ravani felt disgusted for defending it. When she exited, she made sure she didn’t stink of vile fumes, which she didn’t. Thankfully, troll fat had its own stench as it fell from her skin.

Entering the main building, it was clear guards patrolled the hallways as well. Ravani wouldn’t dare try to kill them. She might be a better fighter, but her only weapon was a knife for self-defense, and they were carrying heavier weapons than that. Besides, they looked like they would go down noisily if given a stab to the back or slice to the throat. Ravani merely avoided their patrols as best she could.

Eventually, she snuck into the basement and found the safe. From the look of it, it wasn’t going to be picked open easily, but there was another way in: number combination. Ravani wondered if they were to be used concurrently, if using one would make the other easier, or if you could use one without using the other. Either way, she was going to do the number lock first; it was somehow easier.

She twisted the device to one side, heard nothing, and twisted it the other way until she heard a click. 14. Then a little twisting the other way. 7. A little ways the other way. 27. And then a little way the other way. 35. And with that, the safe was unlocked. The ease of this was shocking. She was worried the Thieves’ Guild really had declined to the point their best thieves botch this job.

The contents of the safe were gold and paper. There were the accounting books, which Ravani wasn’t too interested in. The deed to the estate wasn’t here, which was smart. But there was this odd letter, a bill of sale with no signature on it. The Goldenglow estate was bought by someone who made it clear that their dealings with the Thieves’ Guild were to stop, as if they had a relationship before. It was odd, especially the lack of the buyers’ name; it only named the owner, Aringoth, and a Gajul-Lei person that facilitated the buy. Strange.

The safe cleared, Ravani left the main building quietly, avoid patrols as she detected them. Now, the hives were left. On the bright side, there was a bridge that led to the isle they resided on. A bridge that had torches and guards around it. Yeah, this wouldn’t go well at all.

Or it wouldn’t if Ravani didn’t have a few tricks. It may cost a pretty penny, but she drank the potion of invisibility with great resolve. At once, her skin blended into its surroundings, camouflaged as an ice bear in Winterhold’s tundra. The one problem was the slight feeling of unreality that came with being invisible. There was a reason this wasn’t used as often as healing potions, and not just the rarity of ingredients.

With only second to exploit this, Ravani bolted across the bridge, the guards confused as to what was happening. They could hear her footsteps, but not make out where she was. By the time they seemed to understand, Ravani was visible again with a torch in hand. She lit a row of hives as the guards gathered themselves and threw herself into the drink, their arrows following her in vain.

The swim back to the Riften docks was fraught with difficulty. Ravani thought she’d have time to drink her second potion of resist frost, so now she was submerged in a winter-chilled lake without any fat to protect her and bare skin against the water. The only thing to keep her warm was the fire to escape the guards, but it wouldn’t burn forever.

Once the arrows stopped, the thief being that far away, the chill caught up to her. Her head was fogging, her body was as heavy as ice. She couldn’t see her surviving this easily, but there was the hope. All she could do was hope, for she wouldn’t pray. The gods didn’t care for her.

Fortunately, she made it to the Riften docks without passing out. Before anything else, she spotted the spare bowl of troll fat and threw it into the firepit beside her, bursting the flames. A wave of heat shook her body awake and she gratefully warmed herself on the fire.

After long enough to feel she was warm, Ravani took the brown leather armor beside her and donned it. This was the armor of the Thieves’ Guild, after all, and she was a thief.

* * *

“By the law of the Cyrodiilic Empire, set down by the Mede Dynasty, and the Province of Skyrim; by order of Legate Fasendil and Jarl Maven Black-Briar, Alary of Riften is hereby sentence to indenture servitude to the Donton Family of Chorrol. For theft of the property of an Imperial Legion officer, you must work to repay what you stole, no more or less. We release you to Rena, illegitimate daughter of Marlenda Donton, who you’ll be serving in Skyrim.”

The judicial officer finished his statement and left the dungeon, leaving Rena with an unlocked jail cell and Alary herself.

This was normal, at least as far as Rena was aware, for such a ceremony to go through. She hadn’t been to many of these, but for the one she did see, had her mother taking on someone who stole from her and the Fighters’ Guild as a servant. It wasn’t something that was allowed for just anyone; if you could prove that your business, your lifestyle, or your family status could prove opportune for the criminal to pay you back, it was considered.

Rena was of a family who careered in the Fighters’ Guild, who always needed help around the hall with this or that. They were quick to note her illegitimate status, as it was important for Cyrodiilic culture, but not as much for her mother, even if it meant she might not have been given this honor. However, as a member of Legion, she was of importance and opportunity to pay off Alary’s debt to her, even if it was busy work.

The poor Breton girl stood in her cell wary. She looked ready to fight, or at least defend herself. Rena wondered if she was acquainted with this practice. Alary had protection from mistreatments while a servant and was required to be fed regularly, like any servant, though she wouldn’t be paid for her time until the debt was paid. Rena couldn’t willingly hurt her as long as she was serving her.

“Follow me,” Rena ordered, “We have a lot to do today.”

This was just before dawn. Rena was going to be transferred to Solitude today and it would require leaving in the morning, as it was a long journey. While both were up earlier than they may have liked, it was the Legion and they couldn’t do much about that.

Alary followed close behind as they left the jail. Upon going through the door, Rena found Ravani loitering at the corner. She smelt of ash and honey, a strange smell for anyone to have on them. Rena wondered what in Oblivion she was doing now that involved getting this scent on her.

“So, you’ve done your good deed for the day,” Ravani snarked, “What’s next? Giving cakes to Winterhold? Investing in the East Empire Company? Starting a land war in Akavir?”

Rena didn’t understand the Dunmer’s sarcasm. “What are you implying?” she questioned, “I have given this girl a chance to pay her debt to me faster than in jail.”

“You’ve chosen to take her under your wing,” Ravani remarked, “but you can’t change anything. She’s still a thief, she has no stills otherwise. She can’t exist as anything other than a thief. Everything else would be unnatural.”

Alary shrunk behind Rena. The Legionnaire’s instincts took over. “You’re only envious she is been given an opportunity,” she spat, “You had to betray the Stormcloaks to make anything of your life.”

Ravani looked disappointed. “Personal insults?” she questioned, “I believed you better than that. I suppose what they say about bastards applies to both of us: we know nothing.”

Rena had known such insults all her life. Her mother and her family in the Fighters’ Guild protected her, but that was her only safety against those who knew of her illegitimacy. They would choose to make it their business to curse her, even as a child. It hurt her and she wasn’t keen to live through it again.

“You would insult your own kin?” she spat back, “You betray yourself with such a statement.”

“Please,” Ravani smirked, “whether I was legitimate or not, it matters about as much to where I came from and where I went as your effect on the girl’s life is going to be; a garnish.”

Rena glared at her with whatever fire she could summon. “Why are you here if not to insult me?” she asked.

“One reason,” Ravani explained, “and one reason only. Farewell and good luck.”

And with that, the Dunmer left the shadow of the jail. Rena wondered what sort of person you had to be to insult someone so thoroughly and wish them well in the same breath. Not since Chorrol had she ever seen since such behavior, whether it was the court or the guild hall. They tend to have similar rivalries, though Rena only had a brief glimpse into the court to make such a claim. Ravani might’ve made a good politician, had she not been so clearly disinterest.

But that wasn’t something to ponder now; this was a busy morning. Legionnaires were active, preparing to move out when dawn broke. Others were preparing to move out as well, seeing as there was a regiment moving through the area. This was a chance for a transfer, and there were a fair few who took the opportunity. A lot of Legionnaires didn’t like Riften and were keen to head to Solitude. Something told Rena they’d be grateful to head to Winterhold.

Seeing as she still had to pack, Rena went to the barracks to gather her things. When she went to her quarters, she found Ansgar as she left him; sat on his bunk, still trying to wake up. It was a look that Rena knew well enough, seeing as how she had numerous bunkmates that reacted to the waking world about the same way, especially before their traditional wake up time.

Ansgar, though wildly tired, took note of Alary’s presence. “Is this the thief you’ve taken up as an indentured servant?” he asked.

Rena nodded, expecting some sort of judgement.

“Just don’t let her steel my stuff,” Ansgar requested.

Rena smirked at the remark. It wasn’t the words themselves, but the fact his voice as strong as the winds of High Hrothgar was saying it.

Before Rena went into her belongings, she gave Alary a uniform. It was studded leather, traditional for a squire of the Legion. The Breton girl took it wearily and was pointed to a private area to change clothes. If Rena were to bring Alary with her, she wanted as few questions as possible, so wearing a uniform was the best option. She wasn’t a member of the Legion in any way, but it wasn’t unusual for members in service to an officer to wear the uniform.

Once they were packed, Rena, Ansgar and Alary left the city of Riften to the stables. The Legionnaires ready for transfer were there, close to a battalion. As they marched to along the road, Rena looked back and gave the rudest gesture possible to the city as it left their sight. She, like many soldiers, was glad to leave that den of scum and villainy behind.

“You know,” Ansgar remarked, unamused, “I don’t often wonder which one of us is actually the older one, but right now, I am.”


	6. Chapter 6

Rena and battalion traveled for most of the day across the width of the Rift. It was strange to travel the forever autumn forests without having to face wild beasts and Stormcloak guerillas. Rena was certain that it was fairly common to travel this place without issue; it was just being a company of mounted soldiers riding thunderously across the way. Though funnily, they had far more soldiers and didn’t deal with much resistance. She wondered about that.

By the time they reached the westmost of the hold, they found their camp and stopped for the night. It wouldn’t be dark for a few more hours, but it was the only safe place to stay before the long trek to Solitude, unless Rena was mistaken. Here, they would be safe.

As the battalion got settled, they were met by Legate Fasendil. He was a High Elf, golden skin, hair, and eyes. It wasn’t required he be here, nor was it entirely wise to leave the day to day operations in the hold capital to administrators. Rena knew that if General Tullius knew he was here, he would be confused and displeased, as Rena herself was by his eternal presence here.

“Captains,” the Legate greeted, “you were expected.”

“We know that quite well,” Rena replied as she dismounted her horse, “Now, I don’t think suppose you have more important things to do than greet us.”

“Actually,” the High Elf remarked, “it’s a dull evening. I decided it was at least a use of my time besides staring off into the void.”

Odd, Rena thought, for a Legate to find such little work to do. Praefects tended to be efficient but lacked certain authority. If it could just be anyone doing these things, what was the Jarl’s authority? Certain documents required the Legate and the Jarl’s signature, and the lack of either could illegitimatize several actions. Perhaps there was something to be said about delegation being overrated.

As soon as the battalion halted, they broke to add their own tents and such. Rena left them to solve their dinner situation and went to find some already cooked stew, leaving Ansgar and Alary to help. She intended to share, but once you’ve set up camp as much as Rena has, you find it tedious. Besides, she was hungry now.

It was a few minutes before the smell of something different than just potato. Apple cabbage, from the smell of it. Rena hadn’t had that much, but it was a better alternative than the potato. Lots of Legionnaires had potato soup and Rena had it while in service so often that she could cry. She chose to eat the good soup, not the evil soup.

As she discovered, the source of the apple cabbage was at the Legate’s tent. Fasendil and some random Legionnaires were sat around the pot, taking bowls when hungry. Funny, that.

“You’re welcome to take a bowl,” the Legate clarified.

Rena led Ansgar and Alary to the pot, and they took their own bowls and sat down around the fire. They had not but dry rations on the road, so hot food was more than welcome.

Of course, Rena felt just eating wasn’t enough for everyone. “Why did you join the legion?” she asked the crowd.

Ansgar was the first to answer. “I felt it was my duty,” he explained, “Not much to it, I suppose.”

Rena nodded. She had much the same answer. As someone raised in the Fighters’ Guild, she knew a thing or two about fighting, so decided she was needed in the civil war. That sure changed.

Next was Legate Fasendil. “My parents were traveling merchants, eventually settling in Cyrodiil,” he recounted, “I must have inherited their wanderlust. I joined the Legion to see the world. I know, that's just one of those things people say, but it's completely true in my case. Wasn't long before I saw more of the world than I bargained for.”

This surprised Rena. “You're from Cyrodiil too?” Ansgar asked, “What's it like back home?”

“Home?” Fasendil nearly baulked, “Home to me is a hot cup of ale at the end of the day and five minutes without someone needing something from me. Cyrodiil is a beautiful place, full of diverse peoples and histories. But so too, Hammerfell and Skyrim, and every other place I've been. Don't get me wrong, every country has its dark corners. But that's why we're here. To bring order and civilization, and to protect the people.”

He seemed quite a fair man. Rena regretted that she hadn’t gotten to know him before. “Not everyone seems to want us here,” she sighed.

The Legate nodded. “Ulfric and his thugs are stirring up trouble for their own agenda,” he remarked, “The Empire is the only thing keeping the Dominion from walking all over Skyrim. It matters little if some of the people here are ignorant to that truth. They are still citizens of the Empire. It's our solemn duty to protect them.” He said this with the seasoned wisdom of decades.

“Sounds like you've seen you fair share of hardship,” Rena remarked.

"The life of a soldier is full of hardship,” Fasendil was quick to say, “That's nothing. But they send the Legion to places that've gotten too bad to be settled without violence. What's hard is seeing good people warped by evil. And I've seen the face of evil. It was in the air above Sentinel on the Night of Green Fire.”

Rena hardly knew all of Legion history, nor every city in the world, but she felt like she should’ve known this. “What happened during the Night of Green Fire?” she asked, warry.

Fasendil’s expression darkened. “Back in ‘42 I was stationed in Hammerfell, on leave in Sentinel,” he recounted, “trying to track down some refugee relatives who had fled persecution in Alinor. Suddenly, an explosion of magic in the refugee quarter. Thalmor mages were attacking the Altmer dissidents who were resisting with magic of their own. I ran to the scene with other Legionaries who were stationed there, but the entire quarter was a smoking ruin by the time we arrived. Everyone was dead. Wholesale slaughter. The Dominion, not content with killing dissidents at home, came to Hammerfell to finish the job. We're supposedly at peace now, but I put in to be stationed here to keep an eye on the Thalmor. I've a feeling they're behind this unrest in Skyrim.”

The story left Rena hardened. She knew the White Gold Concordant was a moment of weakness for the Empire, but she wasn’t aware the Thalmor had disrespected them for that long. Perhaps she underestimated them, and their origins as a disrespect for the last Dragonborn Emperor. Should they ever cross the border into the West Weald, into Cyrodiil, they must be ready for war.

By the story’s end, Mariqa joined them. “I joined the Legion because I lost a bet with Talos,” he remarked.

This gained the laughs of most of the fireside audience, save Ansgar. Rena wondered when Ansgar would appreciate Mariqa’s humor.

After stew, Rena went back to the battalion’s part of the camp to find they’re set up camp, the soldiers having set things up. She went to the officers’ tent with an extra bowl of stew, something for Alary. She left the girl to do the setup, hoping a bit of manual labor would keep her busy. The young need to learn some discipline if they have shown none.

When Rena went into the tent, she found Alary curled on her bedroll, leg shaking badly. She looked ashamed, and her breathing was audible from the entrance. It looked like something Rena had seen from someone who couldn’t stand the fight. She didn’t know what brought this about, but she knew something was extremely wrong.

Rena set the stew aside to comfort Alary. “Are you alright?” she asked.

The girl looked at her with a sweating brow. “It hurts,” she muttered.

“What hurts?” Rena quickly asked. She wasn’t about to have this girl die on her watch.

Alary didn’t say. She just sat there with sweat soaking her clothing. Rena didn’t know why this could happen. An allergy reaction? Perhaps the healers would know something about this.

As Rena left the tent, Mariqa was stood outside. “I smell skooma,” he stated grimly.

Skooma? Rena knew it well enough. A substance made from moon sugar, a cultural mainstay of the Khajiit that had a certain kick to it when ingested. Skooma was a distilled version of that substance that was sold as an illicit addictive. Rena had only heard of it, rather than seen it in use. If Alary was taking it, that would explain a lot in a terrible way.

Mariqa entered the tent and immediately went to Alary. “She’s going through withdrawal,” he stated, “Would you stay with me?”

And so, Rena chose to stay with Alary and Mariqa through the night. When someone tried to enter, Mariqa quickly shooed them out with their bedrooms. When Alary grew still, Mariqa had fallen asleep, and Rena was there, stood over both. Once she could be certain Alary’s health wasn’t at immediate risk, she went to sleep, even if there likely wouldn’t be much longer ‘till dawn.

* * *

Festus Krex always enjoyed Babette’s stories. Few remembered the way things were in the Dark Brotherhood, such was the way of killers and the killed. The eldest assassin always gave stories from times far before Festus was naught but his father’s seed. She wasn’t one you would immediately consider to be an assassin, given her age, but you got used to it after a while.

“Again! Again!” Veezara, the Argonian assassin, cheered as he came down from a laugh, “Do the part where he tries to buy you some candy.”

“Okay, okay. Wait. Here we go,” Babette said before putting her impressions face, “’Ooh, you are such a pretty little girl. Would the sweetie like a sweetie? Oh yes, how about some chocolate?’ Oh yes, please, kind sir. My mama and papa left me all alone, and I'm so very hungry. I know a shortcut to the candy shop. Through this alley. ‘Oh ya, good, good. My, it is dark down here. Oh, but you are so beautiful. Such a lovely smile. Your teeth, your teeth! No! Augh!’”

The room irrupted in laughter again. In a sanctuary for hardened assassins, they extracted such joy from stories such as these, particularly Babette’s. Festus sometimes wondered why. Was it because her victims were such fools for trusting her? Or was it solely because, despite her being a vampire older than the Mede dynasty, had the appearance of a ten-year-old girl?

“Oh Babette, but you are so wicked,” remarked Gabriella. Gabriella was the only other mage in the group, and the only Dunmer. She was a snarky one, but still more trustworthy as far as the Brotherhood was concerned.

“What about you, Festus?” Nazir, the Redguard, asked, “How did that last contract turn out?” Nazir, meanwhile, was an upstart in Festus’s mind with little respect for him. How Astrid gave him the responsibility she did was beyond him.

“Oh, yes, please, old man,” Arnbjorn, Astrid’s own husband, added, “Regale us with your tales of wizardry.”

“Ah, the young and stupid,” Festus growled, “Always mocking the experienced and brilliant. My contract went very well, I'll have you know. Tried a new spell. Little something I've been working on in my spare time. Came ‘this’ close to turning that priest inside out. Damned messy.” Did either of them understand the demands of magic or real wet work, not their bastardy of the art?

“And what of your latest, Arnbjorn,” Gabriella snarked, “Something about a Khajiit? Merchant was it?” That was another reason Festus liked the fellow mage: she wasn’t afraid to make funny of their lot.

“Oh, a big doggy chasing a little kitty!” Babette snarked, “How adorable!” Most people were idiots for making fun of a werewolf. Arnbjorn would be the greatest fool in history to try killing Babette.

The werewolf frowned as the room again was filled with laughter. “I am not adorable, it was not funny, and he wasn't a merchant,” he spat back, “He was a Khajiit monk, a master of the Whispering Fang style. But now he's dead,” he smirked like a fox, “and I have a new loincloth.”

And so, the room was filled with laughter. It probably wouldn’t if there was a Khajiit assassin, but there definitely wasn’t. In fact, there weren’t many assassins left. Festus’s laughter faded as he remembered how the Brotherhood fell from grace not too long ago. A bitter memory for any who remember.

The Dark Brotherhood was once a powerful rival to the Morag Tong, especially since there was no law keeping them in one province. Of course, there were no law protecting them. They were hunted for years until this place they stood in was their last sanctuary. If there were others still alive, no one knew. They were alone, just waiting for the next person to sack their home. Again.

And so, Astrid emphasized they were family, brothers, and sisters in arms. Festus would balk at that whenever she said anything of the sort. There were many reasons, but his chief reason was how they were missing their mother. A mother Astrid attempted to supplant, but Festus knew the old ways. The Night Mother was the bride of Sithis, their patron, and she couldn’t be replaced unless Sithis chose to divorce and remarry. Even then, she would be the Night Stepmother.

As the group disbursed to go about their duties, someone caught Festus’s eye. A new face. A Redguard woman, likely old enough to be Nazir’s mother. She in the shrouded armor most of the assassin wore, but clearly wasn’t used to it on her skin. Astrid clearly recruited the woman, but whether she was enough to keep up with even him was yet to be seen.

The Redguard approached Festus, but he already decided to be rough with the new girl and see how she acted. “Yes, yes, you're the new Family member. Let's make this easy,” he snarked, “consider me the cranky old uncle nobody talks to. You go your way, I'll go mine.”

The Redguard woman looked immediately disappointed with Festus’s reactions. Maybe it was because his words were that important to her, maybe her daddy didn’t love her another. All things to laugh at the young for if they want to whine. But still, she said nothing, just looked disappointed. Strange. Festus hmphed at her cold demeanor, something he seen in quite a few of the dead ones.

“What can you tell me about yourself?” the new girl asked. Her accent sounded from southern Hammerfell, not alike Nazir’s western coast.

Festus saw this opportunity to berate the young, even if she was old enough to be his baby sister. “Hmph. I like to say I was born with a wand in my hand. Well, not literally,” he rambled, “you can see how painful that would have been for mother. But I was a prodigy! Casting spells by one, complexing complex incantations by three. Resurrecting corpses by seven! Ha! When I was thirteen, I accidentally burned down the family home. A bit of lightning gone awry. Ah, but soon after I mastered my gifts. Completely. I went on to teach at the College, left after two years. Too simple. Too safe. None of them understood the glory of the Destruction school.”

That was enough to turn her expression from disappointed to annoyed. She was clearly not amused by his rambling. Probably because she’d heard enough to know he was making up most of it. He’d be arrested for one or two of the things he mentioned, and she probably knew that without knowing the actual laws. She was too clever for him.

“My name is Mikaela,” she stated, “If there’s something you need of me, tell me, but don’t waste my time like that again.” She sounded like she was threatening him but didn’t say an actual threat. That was the skill of a true killer. Something Festus hadn’t seen in a generation.

As she left, Festus never let up the crotchety old man façade, even if it technically wasn’t a façade. “Yeah, yeah. Goodbye, kill lots of people, Hail Sithis, and all that.”

In truth, he hoped that she would be the future of the Brotherhood. If there was one.

* * *

Ravani never desired to return to Whiterun. Something about this city filled her with discomfort. Perhaps it was her own history with it, as a city of stone and oak walls hardly seemed intimidating when compared to the grotesque hawks of Windhelm. But she wasn’t required to stay in the city for long.

The Honningbrew Meadery was located on the outskirts of Whiterun city. It was also the Black-Briar Meadery’s competition, with cheaper mead that grants less of hangover. Jarl Maven herself met with Ravani in confidence to say exactly what she expected of her new agent. The thief knew she was doing the dirty work of the awful woman; she just hadn’t expected to be told that by the awful woman.

As it turned out, Honningbrew had a skeever problem. I don’t know your experience, but you should know that vermin and edible things don’t combine to create something good. Should the right authority catch wind of it, they’d close the meadery down with no chance of reopening. The building may even be burned to the ground. Of course, it wasn’t Ravani job to be a tattletale; you don’t send a professionally thief to do a courier’s job.

Ravani entered the meadery and was immediately met with “What are you gawking at? Can't you see I have problems here?”

The man who said as much was likely Sabjorn, the owner. He was an older man, losing his hair, likely from his age and stress. I mean, the place was a mess. Broken bottles spilling mead about the floor, candles on their sides next to partially burnt wood and cloth, rarely a piece of furniture not asunder in some way. Ravani dared not say it looked like a dragon came to Whiterun because one did once, and it left the meadery in a better state than this.

“Is something wrong?” Ravani asked, playing dumb.

“Are you kidding me?” Sabjorn questioned, “Look at this place. I'm supposed to be holding a tasting of the new Honningbrew Reserve for the Captain of the Guard. If he sees the meadery in this state, I'll be ruined.”

Not exactly a prestigious guest, the Captain of the Guard was. Ravani thought she spotted him in the inn. “I might be able to help.”

The owner raised a questioning eyebrow. “Oh really?” he balked, “And I don't suppose you'd just do it out of the kindness of your heart, would you? I hope you're not expecting to get paid until the job's done.”

“Just pay me when the job's done,” the thief assured. If all went right, she likely wouldn’t be paid, but he didn’t need to know that.

“My only demand is that these vermin are permanently eliminated before my reputation is completely destroyed,” Sabjorn demanded.

“How do I permanently clear the vermin?” Ravani asked, emphasizing the “permanently” in hopes of getting something a wise skeever would never eat. I mean, in a thousand years, no one would even know there was a Honningbrew meadery and the actions here would be meaningless, save for perhaps a decrease in skeever due to a decline of genetic diversity, but that wasn’t relevant to either of them.

The owner reached into the bag on his belt and leaned in. “I bought some poison,” he whispered, “I was going to have my lazy, good-for-nothing assistant Mallus handle it, but he seems to have vanished. If you plant this in the vermin's nest, it should stop them from ever coming back."

Funny he should mention Mallus; Ravani had actually met him. Clever bastard. “You've got a deal,” she stated.

Sabjorn handed over vials of poisons to the impromptu exterminator. “Don't come back until every one of those things are dead,” he said in his seemingly usual gruff tone.

Ravani descended into the cellar and found bear traps that were left to rust by skeevers smarter than the owner. Now, she could leave it anywhere and the pests would eat it, but that wouldn’t be wisest place. That didn’t mean it would be an idiot’s thought; it just wasn’t as a good an idea as putting it in the nest. If that’s where they like to be, a little bit of poison would make them thing twice.

Strangely, there was a hole in the cellar wall. It led into a cave. The entrance was laden with bear traps, so the owner knew this was wear the rats were coming from. When Ravani investigated it, one of the little bastards tried to pounce on her, but her knife was sharper than its teeth. The critter dead, Ravani knew where she had to go.

Descending into the cave, she encountered many a skeever and even a frostfall spider. The infestation was worse than previously considered, but none could top what she found by the skeever nest. Stood of there was a man in rags with magic in his hands. No one said anything about a mage. Then again, he looked as awful as one of the skeevers, so maybe he was mistaken for one.

Ravani drew her bow and readied to release an arrow. Before she pulled all the way back, she decided to laden it with some of the spare poison. She wasn’t going to risk fighting a mage with unprompted. Releasing the arrow, it struck him in his back, and he fell. He tried to get back up, but the strength left him. He was helpless when Ravani slit his throat. She couldn’t chance it.

Once the impromptu exterminator doused the nest in poison, she made her way to the brewery portion of the meadery. It was oddly easy, making her believe there was good reason for Sobjorn’s desire to exterminate the skeevers. She snuck up to the top of one of the brewing vats and dumped the remaining poison into the mead. It was her goal after all. She would do more, but she could hear someone entering the room and she scampered to the door on the other side. It was Sabjorn, and by sheer luck, he drew a bottle from that very vat.

Ravani circled the building and entered the meadery proper and found the mess was cleaned. And stood above it was Mallus, the seemingly worthless assistant. His cunning had actually been invaluable to Ravani’s plans. Not that Sabjorn knew; he was stood behind the bar looking as nervous as the husband to a sickly wife in childbirth. Instead, he was just looking a man in iron armor, surveying the place.

When the owner spotted Ravani, he barked, “Was something we discussed unclear?”

“Job's finished,” she stated.

“Well it's about time!” he whisper shouted, “I had to stall the captain until you were finished.”

Ravani actually didn’t recognize him; he looked more like a bandit than a guard captain. “What about my pay?” Ravani questioned, know it wouldn’t be given.

“You'll just have to wait until after the captain's finished,” Sabjorn retorted, “I suppose you can wait around if you must.”

“Well, Sabjorn,” Sinmir, the captain, remarked, “Now that you've taken care of your little pest problem, how about I get a taste of some of your mead?”

“Help yourself, milord. It's my finest brew yet,” Sabjorn groveled, pouring a blue bottle into a mug, “I call it Honningbrew Reserve. I think you'll find it quite pleasing to your palate.”

“Oh, come now. This is mead,” the captain scoffed, “not some wine to be sipped and savored.”

And so, he drank it. Ravani knew it would be a scandal for poisoning the guard captain. All according to plan.

* * *

At the crack of dawn, Skathi and Agata set out. It took the better part of the day and into the night to reach Dimhollow Crypt. They would encounter many a beast keeping them from traveling, but their bow and axe were enough for them. It was good for Skathi to ride with someone, especially her sister. Lydia had a good sword arm, but little else.

As for Dimhollow Crypt itself, it was a cave no one knew anything about. Asking anyone of the Dawnguard or Agata, there was nothing to be said about it, except it was called Dimhollow Crypt. In the barrows she had ventured in before, a little more information could be given. Bleak Falls had warriors from the time of Dragons, Ustengrav held Jurgen Windcaller and his fellows, Reachcliff Cave could be assumed to hold the corpses of Namira worshippers. This was a cave with no knowledge beyond the name.

Skathi and Agata entered the cave. They would find snow on the cave flow and a hole in the roof from where it could’ve come, even if it didn’t fall it. There was a waterfall making a small pool in the center of the cave. There were ruins abound, mostly a small tower and a portcullis at the back of the cave.

And there were people. Skathi could hear someone talking and pulled Agata into a crouch in order to avoid being seen. The Dragonborn slowly approached a perch from where to behold the people. Their dress and glowing eyes gave them away as vampire. By their side was a hound of the breed Agata had described as coming from Oblivion itself. And they were talking.

“These Vigilants never know when to give up,” one remarked with dripping smarm, “I thought we'd taught them enough of a lesson at their hall.”

“To come in here alone,” the other added, “a fool like all the rest of them.”

Laying by the pool was the fresh corpse of Vigilant Tolan by two vampires. He really had gone here to try to help. Agata looked shocked and with raging disgust. She looked as though she was ready to kill them all, but Skathi quickly held her back. She wanted to hear their entire conversation. Something might be gain from listening.

“He fought well though,” the first vampire recounted, “Jeron and Bresoth were no match for him.”

It became harder for Skathi to hold her sister back after that. “Ha,” the other vampire chuckled, “Those two deserved what they got. Their arrogance had become insufferable.”

“All this talk is making me thirsty,” the first sighed, “Perhaps another Vigilant will wander in soon.”

Skathi smirked at that. “I wish Lokil would hurry it up,” the other vampire added, “I have half a mind to return to the castle and tell Harkon what a fool he's entrusted this mission to.”

That at least told them something. The vampires had a master and a seat of power from which to enact their deeds. Additionally, it seemed they had a specific goal in mind. If this Harkon had designs for Skyrim, Skathi wanted to know what they were.  
“And I have half a mind to tell Lokil of your disloyalty,” the first vampire said to his comrade.

“You wouldn't dare,” the other gasped, “Now shut up and keep on watch.”

With their conversation over, Skathi decided to now was the time to strike and loosed an arrow at the first vampire. He didn’t take to it well but wasn’t dead. The other vampire quickly ran to killed the sisters, but Agata put a crossbow bolt in her gut. The other fell to the ground and Agata’s axe finished her off.

The first vampire, shocked by this display, sent the red energy Skathi knew from her time encountering vampires from his hands. What was this energy? It hardly mattered. An arrow met him in the eye, killing him and enraging the hound. It tried to strike at Skathi, but Agata cut it down with the axe.

It was surprising to behold. Of the two sisters, Skathi assumed she would take to vampire slaying more than Agata. She spent all her time in the wilderness, killing to survive. Agata still walked the roads of Skyrim, but perhaps it was the Dawnguard’s arsenal at work, that mechanical usurper for a bow turning out to be useful. Not a great thing to admit for an archer.

The sister would go deeper into the cave. They would encounter many a vampire and their hounds. Skathi would land arrows on her targets faster, but Agata’s crossbow would kill them before you could say “In my day!” The crossbow did take longer to nock and pull, and Skathi’s melee style had a certain finesse, but Agata’s axe and crossbow was far more efficient. Things were changing, but she didn’t hate it. It just depressed her, and she wasn’t she why.

Eventually, they came upon an area that was neither crypt nor cave. Architecture that seemed far from any Skathi had seen was built here in the middle of the Pale. Why? A ruin older than the ancient Nords perhaps, but the stonework seemed as new as anything. Dimhallow was getting stranger and stranger.

The looked out from a ledge to see two vampires and two armed guards, perhaps the vampires’ thralls, around a man in his trousers. Skathi’s good eyes spotted a necklace bearing an ornamental horn, the symbol of Stendarr. A Vigilant, to her best guess. She nocked an arrow, preparing to take out the party.

“I'll never tell you anything, vampire,” the Vigilant proclaimed, “My oath to Stendarr is stronger than any suffering you can inflict on me.”

One of the vampires stepped forward. “I believe you, Vigilant,” he stated, “And I don't think you even know what you've found here. So, go and meet your beloved Stendarr.”

And before Skathi could pull her bowstring or Agata could strike them, the vampire slit the Vigilant’s throat open. Agata looked angry at this death, full of the need for vengeance. Skathi was angry too, but this seemed oddly personal. What had happened to her sister to bring her such rage?

“Are you sure that was wise, Lokil?” asked the other vampire, a woman, “He still might have told us something. We haven't gotten anywhere ourselves with.”

The first vampire, Lokil, turned to his comrade. “He knew nothing,” he explained, “He served his purpose by leading us to this place. Now it is up to us to bring Harkon the prize. And we will not return without it. Vingalmo and Orthjolf will make way for me after this.”

The vampire woman looked ashamed to have questioned this. “Yes, of course Lokil,” she was apologized, but rose her head to say, “Do not forget who brought you news of the Vigilants' discovery.”

Lokil put a hand on his servant’s cheek. “I never forget who my friends are,” he said, gripping the skin harder on his next words, “Or my enemies.”

A click punctuated his words and a crossbow bolt struck him in the chest. Before the vampires could react, Skathi followed her sister’s actions and loosed an arrow into his throat, killing him instantly. The remain vampire and her thralls ran up a stairway that would lead to the Wolf-Runners’ perch, so they drew their blade in preparation.

The vampire unleashed the familiar red energy, but Skathi had little patience for this, no the thralls running to strike her.

**“Fus Ro Dah!”**

****

The attackers were thrown back. The one of the thralls cracked his neck on the stairs and the other was flung off the stairway and fell into a pit. The remaining vampire ran at them with a sword in hand, but Skathi slashed her throat. It was supposed to cut her head off, but it only stumbled her. Skathi brought the blade down harder and fully decapitated her. If she couldn’t call herself a good vampire hunter, but she was still Dragonborn.

****

That wasn’t as obvious to other, however. When she turned to Agata, she looked agape. Right, Skathi hadn’t told her about the Dragonborn thing. Perhaps that would be beneficial.

****

“I heard Ulfric killed the High King with his voice,” Agata remarked, still shocked, “but I didn’t think there was any truth to that.”

****

Skathi shuffled, embarrassed. “Yeah,” she replied, “I’m actually Dragonborn.”

****

“I don’t know what that means,” Agata admitted, “Are you what those bards have been singing about?”

****

Those bards always made Skathi blush from such a compliment. “Yup,” she said as she scratched the back of her head, “that’s me.”

****

Agata looked all the more surprised. “Is there any truth to those songs?” she asked.

****

“Yeah,” Skathi answered, “A bit.” Most of it was true, to be honest. Save the stuff about Dagrun Blood-Maiden; she had no clue how that started.

****

“Were you always like this?”

****

“Pretty sure I was,” Skathi nodded.

****

After a few moments of discussion and questions, they returned to the matter at hand. They came upon a round plateau of stone with a pedestal at its center. On the floor were small trenches of some purpose, too small to fit anything as large as your fist. Skathi decided to get a better looked at the pedestal, rubbing some dust and dirt of its eye when a spike shot out it and jammed into her hand.

****

“Skathi!” Agata cried as she ran to her sister’s aid. A bandage was wrapped around her hand from what scraps for cloth were around.

****

As the spike descended, a purple glow erupted from the plateau. It shook as though the earth was opening and it just about did. The pedestal rose to reveal a large monolith that could easily fit a person. From it emerged a young woman clad in fine black and red clothes. And on her back was the familiar shape of an Elder Scroll. Skathi was metaphorically soiling herself.

****

The woman looked at the Wolf-Runner’s with glowing orange eyes, warry of them. “Where is?” she groaned, adjusting to the light it seemed, “who sent you here?”

****

“A man named Isran,” Agata explained. She didn’t seem phased by the eyes. Skathi thought that was weird.

****

“I don't know who that is,” the vampire admitted, “Is he,” she paused, “like me?”

****

“I honestly doubt he’s a vampire,” Skathi answered, much to Agata’s shock, “He would want us to kill you.” Could Agata not tell she was a vampire?

****

“Not fond of vampires, is he?” the young woman asked, already knowing the answer, “Well, look. Kill me, you've killed one vampire. But if people are after me, there's something bigger going on. I can help you find out what that is.”

****

Agata moved forward to do something, but Skathi held her back. “Why were you locked away like this?” the Dragonborn asked.

****

“That's,” the vampire began to answer before deciding to say, “complicated. And I'm not totally sure if I can trust you. But if you want to know the whole story, help me get back to my family's home.”

****

“Where do you need to go?” Skathi asked.”

****

The young woman looked more comfortable with them. “My family used to live on an island to the west of Solitude,” she explained, “I would guess they still do. By the way,” she paused to get both the Wolf-Runner’s attention, “my name is Serana. Good to meet you.”

****

As they began to leave, Agata asked, “What are we doing?”

****

Skathi couldn’t honestly answer that question. All she knew was needed to see this through.

****

* * *

****

Narfi knew Rayda was coming back eventually. She never said goodbye, just like their parents, and she wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. She would never do that to her brother, would she? No, no, not to her brother, not to the only other person who couldn’t say goodbye. The others in town told him not to wait, but he waited.

****

He didn’t go to work as long as she was away. He wanted to be there when Rayda came back. In the meantime, his coin purse had run dry, and he had to trade for food. Then he ran out of things to trade, so all he could do was beg for scraps or coin. But still, Narfi wasn’t about to let her down and not be there when she came back.

****

But then the house burned down. Narfi was never good at lighting the hearth fire, so maybe it was inevitable, but it looked so good for so long. It seemed like it wouldn’t burn down, but a stray coal caught the rug and it went mad from there. His family home destroyed by him. He hoped wherever Rayda went was a good place and had enough coin to buy lumber from Temba to rebuilt. Divines knew she needed the business.

****

Narfi often wondered where she went. Of course, there was a ruin on the lake called Geirman’s Hall, that she always talked about. She knew who Geir and his men were and how they made their hall. She knew how they interacted with Ivarstead and the Greybeards. She probably went there to find Nord treasures. But still, why did she take so long?

****

In the meantime, things had certainly changed. People in red, blue, and black came to Ivarstead, for what reason he didn’t know. Wilhelm said they were here because of the civil war, whatever that was, and they were here to talk the summit of High Hrothgar. What that meant to Narfi was a lot of talking instead of fighting. Good thing, fighting hurts, especially when they punch you.

****

To Narfi’s understanding, none of them liked any of the others, but they didn’t agree about it. The red folks didn’t like the black folks but put up with them and that wasn’t to the blue folk liking. Why? Narfi didn’t know that one. He did notice that most of the red folks and blue folks were Men, while the black folks were entirely made of Elves. Maybe they didn’t like Elves that much.

****

But why didn’t they like the Elves? Elves are wonderful folk, like Gwilin at the lumber mill. Maybe these Elves did something no one liked, like beat them up when they asked for food. Maybe the red and blue folks were horrible people and didn’t accept the Elves. Why didn’t they? Narfi never understood much, especially why anyone would hate anyone. He also didn’t know how to tie fancy shoes, so what did he know?

****

The thing he did notice was how they were supposed to talk together. No red folk to black folk without blue folk also being there, and numerous versions of that. Narfi didn’t know why, just that it was what they were supposed to do.

****

So, why did that black Elf and that blue Elf talk to each other? He tried to tell someone about it, but no one took it seriously. In all fairness, he didn’t say “Blue folk talk to black folk”; he said that the Elves were talking. Narfi wasn’t so good with words. By the time he came back to where they were talking, they were gone, so perhaps they were up to bad things.

****

In that time, things had been as normal as they’d never been. He begged for coin, he got coin, he bought food. He tried to get back to work, but he found his work was much harder than was before. Maybe he hadn’t been eating as much as he should. He considered things might be too late for him, that he had missed his chance to earn coin from work, not begging. He considered he was doomed to this life.

****

But he didn’t want to get his spirits down. Rayda would return one day, she would bring gold to improve both their lives. With the gold, they’d rebuild their home, they’d eat as much as they desired, and they’d wear the finest clothing. That was the future, not more of this. It had to be, for anything else was merely a phase.

****

And so, Narfi sat in his family house, waiting for Rayda to return. It was rather dull, to be honest, but he made her a promise. No one came to talk to him; he had to go to town to speak or beg or buy.

****

So, you can imagine his surprise when a shrouded figure appeared in town. They walked across the river separating his house from the village, even though they could just take the bridge a way downstream. They moved like a specter across the water, and no one could see it but him it seemed. At least, he didn’t see anyone approach them.

****

“Who are you?” Narfi stuttered, “What do you want?” No creature such as this would ever go anywhere without a purpose.

****

And they said nothing. Not a word. Perhaps they had nothing to say, perhaps they had nothing to say to him. Whatever it was, they weren’t one for conversation. Sort of like everyone in town, but at least he could think of a reason they wouldn’t want to talk. This was a visitor, not one of the townsfolk. They sought Narfi out, not simple be there.

****

“Do, do you want something?” the beggar asked. No response.

****

“Look,” he sighed, “if you ain't gonna talk, or spare no coin, just go away.”

****

Narfi thought he was sparing this visitor’s time, but they seemed to take offense to that. At their side was a quiver of black arrows, and the visitor nocked it in a bow. One could mistake this for the act of a hunter, but there were no animals around. No, even Narfi knew this visitor was an assassin. And they were here for him, no one else.

****

He bolted when the thought crossed his mind. Was this the acts of the black Elves, finally deciding that he shouldn’t be so talkative? Could it have been them? If not them, then who else? Surely no one in town view him with such contempt that they wished to kill him. Even Wilhelm didn’t hate him, and Narfi knew he bother the poor man for so long. He couldn’t think of anyone other than the black Elves that may want him dead.

****

But this running was for naught. Narfi felt the arrow strike his back, and in that moment, he knew he would be dead soon. He already felt the life draining from him. And in that moment, he accepted Rayda was probably dead. No one’s gone that long without being dead.

****

It made him sad because he couldn’t say goodbye now.

****

* * *

****

It took a long time, from dusk ‘till dawn, to reach Solitude, as it always does. It would’ve shocked Rena if it was as brief a journey as from the fletcher to the smithy. There weren’t many places that were close to Solitude, as the name seemed to imply. It was in the peak of the Draudach mountain range, and there were few places safe to settle there, one of them being the town of Dragonbridge on the road to Solitude. It was an opportune capital, it was easy to safe if there were armies marching on you.

****

Rena and battalion arrived a fair whack after dusk, but that meant less with the wintering days. The weather was chilling as well, so Rena expected cold weather uniforms soon. Granted, those uniforms should’ve been standard issue with Skyrim weather being what it is, but some praefect probably thought that they should be held off until the actual winter. That would explain their unwillingness to give them over in autumn.

****

Rena and Ansgar, being the ranking officers of the battalion, were required to report in with Castle Dour’s command staff to explain their arrival. Though they were tired, they silently gave in and went to the war room to meet at least one of the legates or maybe General Tullius.

****

To their surprise, it wasn’t even a Legionnaire they found in the war room. Though they wore Imperial red, their armor was black as iron with the Imperial Eye on their cuirass. Though Rena had never seen their kind in her life, she knew who this was: a member of the Penitus Oculatus. They were the Emperor’s hands, ears, and eyes, as well as bodyguards. They never appeared unless the Emperor was in some way involved.

****

“Pardon?” Rena inquired, “Do you know where General Tullius is?”

****

The agent looked from their work on the table to look at the two officers in confusion. “I was assured I had the room for the night,” they remarked, “Who are you two?”

****

“Rena Donton,” the officer explained, pointing to herself and then her comrade, “Ansgar Nordson. We’re captains of the Legion and we just transferred from Riften.”

****

The agent appeared to search their memories for one thing or another. “You were expected tomorrow,” they said with a hand on their sheathed sword.

****

Rena had heard of the skill of the Penitus Oculatus. Perhaps exaggerations, but it was said they could slay a minotaur with one concise swing of their sword. They could track a hawk in a snowstorm. They could easily slay a dragon, should the desire arise. And they never left witnesses of their actual duties. If this one believe Rena and Ansgar were a threat, they would need to fight harder than they ever had in their life.

****

“Tribune Dorelia,” came General Tullius’s voice from the direction of the chamber pot, “what in Oblivion are you doing?” He had such an unimpressed and cynical tone, as though this hadn’t been their first time acting up.

****

“Captains Donton and Nordson have arrived,” Dorelia explained, “one day early.”

****

There was a brief moment of silence, but it felt like it lasted an hour. Rena had faced many a foe that would’ve killed her had she let her guard down. Dragons, Stormcloaks, Forsworn, Giants, animals of all sorts. If this could easily become her undoing, whether or not she was ready. She would likely be punished by the full extent of the law for striking a Penitus Oculatus agent, but she was never one to surrender when she never even fought.

****

And then, Tullius spoke. “Let me finish my shit.”

****

In another unbearable moment, Tullius emerged, wiping his hands with a washcloth. He saw his captains and said, “Well, I didn’t expect you this early. I thought you would’ve stayed at Checkpoint Tribus.”

****

“I couldn’t stay there,” Rena explained, “not for long.”

****

Tullius nodded, understanding her reasons. “Well, we’ll still need to go through the proper paperwork,” he remarked.

****

Dorelia looked shocked. “You’re not question that it’s them?” they questioned.

****

“Yes,” Ansgar interjected, “why are you more suspicious?”

****

“Well,” Tullius explained, “you can fake a face, but you can’t fake Nordson’s disposition.”

****

Rena chuckled, Ansgar didn’t. His humorlessness could be spot from a mile away, his strength was so uptight that you could put a coal under his arm and make a diamond. Should he ever need to assured his identity, he need only be asked if he was really going to take that face on for the day and watch his frown tighten. At least he was professional, and that was likely the source of his unrufflable demeanor.

****

“Welcome back,” Tullius greeted formally, “Tribune Dorelia is only here for the wedding of the Emperor’s cousin.”

****

That made sense to Rena. Vittoria Vici, the Emperor’s cousin, was of a profile that putting her in danger was maybe going outside without two bodyguards. She was managed this division of the East Empire Company as well, so there was much importance on that front as well. Anyone whose greed exceeded their wisdom would take her hostage for her weight in gold. They wouldn’t live long, but they didn’t have an altogether terrible idea, just a mostly terrible idea.

****

“So,” Tullius inquired, “what have you been up to?”

****

“Well, I fought pirates in the Sea of Ghosts,” Ansgar remarked. A child would say it with excitement, but he said it like he didn’t get his dessert and was trying not to seem upset.

****

Tullius nodded. “I think I heard about that,” he remarked. “And you?” he asked, looking at Rena.

****

“Well, a thief tried to steal my coin purse,” Rena recounted, “To cut a long story short, she’s now my indentured servant.”

****

“Uh,” Tullius did grunt, “I wouldn’t expect you to have such a person.”

****

“Well, I don’t intend to keep her forever,” Rena explained, “She’s young and I wish to make something out of her.”

****

Tullius nodded. It was clear he was tired, just as the captains were. Needless to say, they kept the pleasantries short and did what papper worked needed to be done quickly. With that done, they retreated into their quarters, ate what food was already ready, and went to bed.

****

But there was something bothering Rena. Ansgar was far more somber than he once was. After coming back from leave, you’d expect anyone to be a tad chipper, having spent that time to rejuvenate themselves, but not so for Ansgar. In fact, his attitude had worsened, as he left with excitement and returned with depression. Rena wasn’t certain what it could be. Perhaps he didn’t use his time wisely.

****

“Ansgar,” she asked, “what happened while you were on leave?”

****

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” he replied, as dreary as he was in that meeting.

****

Rena knew there was no use squeezing blood from a stone, so left it alone for now. She only hoped he got out of this attitude. There are many things in both the Legion and life you don’t want to approach with a dower face.

****

* * *

****

The Wolf-Runners chose to wait until daybreak to set out from Dimhallow. It was night when they first arrived, so they were understandably exhausted. Serana wasn’t exhausted at all. Agata supposed that made sense; she was in that monolith for a presumably long time. It was so long that when Agata mentioned the Empire, Serana was surprised Cyrodiil was even the seat of an empire. That gave a generous amount of time to earn a rest.

****

Skathi seemed to trust Serana. Agata didn’t understand this, as she was part of the Dawnguard. She joined to fight vampires, presumably. You would think she wouldn’t trust a vampire, but she did. Of the reasons Agata could think for this trust to occur, the most likely that would still leave her alive was lust, and she didn’t dare to check that.

****

At dawn, the Wolf-Runners set out to Serana’s castle. Agata was certain there couldn’t be anything left of it. If it had been centuries at least for her to have missed even the First Empire, there couldn’t much more than a ruin. She’d never even heard of a castle in the western Sea of Ghosts, a bad idea if ever there was one.

****

So, you can imagine her surprise when they did see it from the coastline. Agata saw the castle wreathed in fog and built with dark stones even in the afternoon light. It gave an air, even from here, of a dark place that the light doesn’t reach. It seemed another world, worse than this one. And there was a jetty in working order with a boat they could use to go to the isolated island.

****

Skathi, through trial and error, began to row them to the island. Her willingness was getting more and more worrisome. It was likely that Serana was using some sort of vampiric control over the Wolf-Runner sister. Agata held her axe close by to kill Serana. She had just gotten her sister back; she wasn’t about to lose her again.

****

When they disembarked, the vampire spoke up. “Hey, so, before we go in there,” she awkwardly tried to say.

****

“Are you all right?” Skathi asked. She seemed genuinely concerned. This concerned Agata.

****

“I think so. And thanks for asking,” Serana replied, “I wanted to thank you for getting me this far. But after we get in there, I'm going to go my own way for a while. I think,” she grimaced at her use of words and corrected, “I know your friends would probably want to kill everything in here. I'm hoping you can show some more control than that. Once we're inside, just keep quiet for a bit. Let me take the lead.”

****

Agata wasn’t interesting in taking orders from a vampire, but her little sister didn’t object. Deciding not to listen to the Dragonborn could have dire consequences, especially one that might be under another’s influence.  
They approached the portcullis and a watchman spotted them. He was about to say something but seemed to change what he was about to say.

****

“Lady Serana's back!” he announced, “Open the gate!”

****

The portcullis rose and the Wolf-Runners with their charge entered the castle. The deeper they got into this, Agata’s anxiety rose higher and higher. These creatures could easily kill her and kill them all. She wasn’t ready to die here.

****

When they entered, an Altmer in vampiric fashion came to them and barked, “How dare you trespass here! Wait,” he looked surprised by the Wolf-Runners’ vampiric company, “Serana? Is that truly you? I cannot believe my eyes!” He ran to a balcony and announced, “My lord! Everyone! Serana has returned!”

****

Serana, seemingly surprised, remarked, “I guess I'm expected.”

****

They entered a room that was much like a horrifying banquet hall. On the tables strewn about the place, there was both bloody raw beef and mannish bodies, though who could tell if they were alive. The diners were all vampires, their glowing eyes and unnatural faces giving them away. The sight of all this nearly made Agata gag.

****

At the focus of this court was a tall man with dark hair and pale skin and dress in the same coloration as Serana. He was most likely her father. He gave no true warmth from him, appearing to be secretly aloof at this daughter’s return. What was perhaps worse was that his cape was pinned with the sigil of Molag Bal, much like how Serana’s choker. This is exactly where Agata didn’t want to be.

****

“My long-lost daughter returns at last,” Serana’s father announced, “I trust you have my Elder Scroll?”

****

Serana seemed unamused by his lack of concern. “After all these years, that's the first thing you ask me?” she fairly snarked, “Yes, I have the scroll.”

****

Agata had no clue what an Elder Scroll was, but Skathi look distressed by its handing off. She seemed to know what it was but didn’t tell her sister anything.

****

“Of course, I'm delighted to see you, my daughter,” the vampiric father assured, “Must I really say the words aloud? Ah, if only your traitor mother were here, I would let her watch this reunion before putting her head on a spike.” Agata couldn’t help but think this family had all the warmth of old Atmora. “Now tell me, who is these strangers you have brought into our hall?”

****

“These are my saviors,” Serana explained, “the ones who freed me.”

****

He turned his attention to the Wolf-Runners with little change in enthusiasm. “For my daughter's safe return,” he proclaimed, “you have my gratitude. Tell me, what are your names?”

****

“I’m Skathi,” the Dragonborn declared, motioning towards Agata to prompt her.

****

“You first,” she stated. She didn’t even wanna be here; etiquette was the last thing on her mind.

****

The vampire looked offended. “I am Harkon, lord of this court,” he proclaimed, “By now, my daughter will have told you what we are.”

****

“You're vampires,” Agata replied, “and a reclusive cannibal cult.” Skathi looked as though she wanted her sister to stop. Agata wasn’t going to; they kill vampires, so no need to show them any respect.

****

"Not quite,” Harkon said as he put on the fakest smile that could still look calm, “though I can see how an outsider might arrive at that conclusion. No, we are vampires, among the oldest and most powerful in Skyrim.”

****

Agata tried to maintain her composure. The fact that they lived for this long means they knew how to remain in hiding from enemies that could destroy them and wipe out any who challenged them. The Dawnguard would need to be of a great strength to meet them. She wasn’t sure how soon they could reach that. Probably not fast enough.

****

Skathi, meanwhile, seemed to keep it together far better. “What happens now?” she inquired without a hint of fear.

****

“You have done me a great service,” Harkon stated, looking solemn as he did so, “and now you must be rewarded.”

****

Before the court, he announced, “There is but one gift I can give that is equal in value to the Elder Scroll and my daughter. I offer you my blood. Take it, and you will walk as a lion among sheep. Men will tremble at your approach, and you will never fear death again.”

****

With the court in murmurs, Agata trembled at this offer. “And if I refuse your gift?” she asked, fearing the answer.

****

“Then you will be prey,” Harkon said with disgust, “like all mortals. I will spare your life this once, but you will be banished from this hall.” Before he could get an answer, he bellowed, “Perhaps you still need convincing? Behold the power!”

****

Darkness consumed his form and from it emerged a creature far from anything Agata could say she had seen. Green skin was wrapped a form that was both gaunt and muscular. It had wings and claws like a bat, but the head of a beast beyond imagination. Upon it was a scant wardrobe of red cloth in gold and bejewel decoration. It wasn’t the sort of thing one sees in their sober nightmares.

****

“This is the power that I offer!” Harkon’s voice announced, emerging from this form, “Now, make your choice!”

****

Agata couldn’t do this. She ran to the Dawnguard to escape form Molag Bal’s influence. Vampires were creatures of the King of Rape and this court’s leader wore his heraldry like his own. She couldn’t so easily do this, especially with Molag’s threat still hung over her. If she accepted this, she could easily make it prophecy.

****

Beyond that, vampires were known to drink blood for sustenance and hide from the light. Agata couldn’t change her life to accommodate those needs. She couldn’t let herself be weaken the light and change her sleeping patterns around that. And blood, she couldn’t even begin to try grow a fondness for. She couldn’t. Her choice was clear.

****

“I will accept your gift and become a vampire.”

****

Agata couldn’t believe it. She turned to see her sister prepared to become a vampire. She was going down a path that would surely lead to her death at the poor Nord’s hands. She was embracing the cannibalism that destroyed her family in the first place. How could she?

****

“And you?” Harkon asked Agata.

****

Answering far too quick, “I don't want to become a vampire. I refuse!” Only after she said them did she realize what those words were.

****

“So be it!” Harkon proclaimed, “You are prey, like all mortals. I banish you!”

****

And so, the poor Nord left the court. She looked into her sister’s eyes to see some sign of the sister she was about to lose, but all that was in her eyes was emotionless calm. When next they met, Agata would kill her; Molag Bal was right. Damn Molag Bal for that prophecy! Damn Harkon for this “gift”! And damn Serana for stealing her sister so soon after she got her back.

****

The last she heard as she left the castle was Harkon saying, “Hold still.”

****


	7. Chapter 7

One of the things Rena wanted for Alary was a trade. Granted, she likely had a chance as a mage, but not a good mage. A Nightblade isn’t a respectable profession, at least as far as Rena was aware. Her untrained skill in magic and theft was specialized towards a thief, and Rena wanted to send her down a different path. One with less danger and more legality.

There was an expert wizard in Solitude by the name of Sybille Stentor. Stentor was the court wizard of the Blue Palace, Jarl Elisif’s place. She offered her services for a fee, but there were other deterrents from using her. By reputation, she was a sycophant, a liar, a vampire, a vicious cur that had no regard for even blood. She was the advisor to the late High King Torygg, and I don’t think I need to repeat what happened to him. Rena was doubtful it was a wise investment to even let her in the city for so long.

There were other professional in Solitude, but none had an opening for training. The only place that was taking student was the Bards’ College, which Rena was uncertain of. She had seen many a bard on her travels and never met one she entirely could call well off. They earned enough for food, board, and travel, but would often busk or be hired in a tavern. That was the similarities between Cyrodiilic and Skyrim bards; the difference was the bards of Skyrim rarely performed in court.

Beyond these choices, anything else required Rena send Alary out of Haafinger. One of the conditions of indentured servitude was that the servant be “at the master’s whim”. If Rena sent Alary to even Hjaalmarch, she could be arrested for attempting to flee her sentence, even if that weren’t what was going on. Rena didn’t want to leave Solitude, nor would she be able to transfer what with having just done so to the Imperial reserve.

All in all, it was a terrible situation. So, she went to Alary for to see what she wanted. She was definitely old enough to have an opinion on something like this, so maybe she had something to say.

After Rena gave the options, Alary only said, “I don’t like either of them.”

Well, that didn’t go as well as she hoped. So, Rena had little choice but to choose the Bards’ College. It was a new skill set, but Alary was young and could learn easier than most. And while Stentor could warp her, the numerous people at the college could provide her with the option for good socialization. It was at least a chance for a better life.

At least, that’s what she said to herself as she and Alary arrived at the college. In truth, she needed some convincing herself. Alary looked timid, with gave Rena worries. She hoped that this was the right thing for Alary. She was young potential and Rena wanted to nurture it. The problem was if this was the right way to do that.

When they entered, Rena was met by a High Elf in a blue suit. He had this goatee and a very particular haircut that elongated his already long face. All in all, Rena could call his head a slice of cheese if she were mean.

“Welcome to the Bard's College,” he greeted in voice not as melodious as Rena would expect of a bard, “I am the headmaster here. How may I help you?”

“I'm looking to apply a member of my household to the college,” Rena explained.

The Altmer looked around Rena, likely to see Alary hiding behind her. “And what would be our shy showman’s name?” he asked.

Alary wasn’t exactly one for words. She barely spoke to Rena the entire time they’d known each other. Their relationship was based on Rena’s desire to continue it and she knew it. Perhaps it was just the circumstances of her life, or it was just how she was. Either way, Alary was moving towards the dark corners of the world if Rena didn’t do anything. At least, that’s how she saw it.

“Alary,” was all the poor girl said.

The Altmer smiled. “I’m Viarmo,” he spoke in a fatherly voice, “Always a pleasure to meet a prospective bard.” He turned to face Rena and Alary together. “You should be aware that many apply but we accept very few people. When possible, we ask applicants to perform tasks the college needs completed. In this case, I do have a task befitting an inspiring bard.”

“What do you need us to do?” Rena asked.

Viarmo looked disappointed. “This is something for the applicant, not their guardian, to accomplish,” he explained, “If you did all the work for Alary, we might as well induct you instead.”

Rena sighed. She knew that was true enough. When she first applied to the Legion, her mother was unduly willing to help her during training. It was strictly forbidden for any of the students to be taught outside the Legion instructors, so it had to stop. Rena had a fail or succeed by herself. It was a shame to see she didn’t learn how to apply that to others.

The Legionnaire took a seat and let Alary talk to Viarmo herself. She was so timid, it looked like she’d shrink into the potted plants. Perhaps a profession where you had to be in front of other people was an unwise one for someone such as her. But still, she had to learn some sort of socialization.

As soon as their discussion was over, Alary went to Rena and almost begged, “We can leave now.”

And so, they left. As they left, Viarmo bid, “I wish you luck in finding the verse.”

With Alary tasked, Rena was keen to know what it was. “So, what is your task?” she asked.

Alary looked surprised to be asked. “Jarl Elisif has forbidden the Burning of King Olaf,” she explained, “a Festival put on by the Bards College. We need to change her mind. To convince her, Headmaster Viarmo wants to read King Olaf's Verse. A part of the Poetic Edda, the living history of Skyrim. Unfortunately, the verse was lost long ago.”

Rena could hear someone else in her voice. She was likely repeating to the word what she was told. “And that's where you come in?” she inquired.

Alary nodded. “According to Giraud,” she continued, “our histories keeper, the portion of Edda dealing with King Olaf might still exist in Dead Man's Respite. I need to retrieve the poem.”

Seemed a difficult task for one so young to Rena. “I could assist you, if you so wish,” she offered.

“Okay,” Alary replied. She seemed a little uncomfortable, but Rena couldn’t nail down of what.

When they returned to the barracks, they charted the way to Dead Man’s Respite in Hjaalmarch. It was an old ruin along the Hjaal River. Due to the likelihood of draugr and the like, Rena wanted to accompany her. Also, the aforementioned requirement that a servant be with their master apply, as it was in a different hold.

As much as Rena was ready, willing, and able to help Alary, she was worried still. She was worried everything she was doing would hurt the girl in some way. She could only hope it didn’t, but that was a fear. Only with time, Alary’s own word or both would Rena know if she was doing the right thing.

* * *

Finally, after so long, so much searching, the Night Mother had found sanctuary. It had taken a long time to get there, with terrible directions and the like veering him off, but he would always do his duty. What else could Cicero do? He was her Keeper, and a Keeper keeps the Night Mother.

It wasn’t an easy task getting the Night Mother into the sanctuary. She had to be carried, what with her being a lifeless corpse in a coffin. A lot of people questioned why he, who wore the garb of a jester, would travel Skyrim with a coffin in his cart. Nary a Merryman had been seen in this province for a century, it seemed, and it drew much suspicion. But still, he wasn’t going to fail his task, even if the black door wasn’t kind.

He drag the box into the sanctuary, making a noise that drew much attention. Many of them watched as he tore the wood apart with a crowbar, revealing its true design. It was a metal casket, one that could withstand the fire that destroyed the other sanctuaries. As it was propped up in the center of the sanctuary’s hall, a big white-haired man approached him.

“Why in Oblivion is that thing here?” he questioned.

Cicero could feel a frown on his face. “It is the Night Mother, fool!” he snapped in a voice he would admit was shrill, “She is our leader. Do you question that authority?”

“It’s a corpse,” the white-haired man snarked, “Why do you insist on its authority when Astrid is a living, breathing person we can follow?”

Cicero lost all his self-control, as little as he had. “But the Night Mother is mother to all!” he shrieked, “It is her voice we follow! Her will! Would you dare risk disobedience? And surely” a grin formed on his face and he could feel it, “punishment?”

A crowd was gathering, but the big man didn’t care we was speaking treason. “Keep talking, little man,” he growled, “and we'll see who gets ‘punished.’”

Oh, Cicero knew it would not be him who would be punished. Astrid held no authority, no authority that could be recognized. She was only leader for there was no Listener to hear the Night Mother’s words, and no Speakers that could give the assassins their duties. Once the Listener revealed themselves, Astrid’s judgment would be decided.

To this discussion, an old mage with a bald head approached. “Oh, be quiet you great lumbering lapdog,” he barked at the big man, “The man has had a long journey. You can at least be civil.”

The mage then turned to the jester and continued, “Mister Cicero, I for one am delighted you and the Night Mother have arrived. Your presence here signals a welcome return to tradition.”

A man old enough to know the way things should be. This made Cicero grin. “Oh, what a kind and wise wizard you are,” he remarked, “Sure to earn our Lady's favor.”

It was then that Astrid revealed herself, the blonde woman she was. “You and the Night Mother are of course welcome here, Cicero,” she stated in a saccharine sweet voice, “And you will be afforded the respect deserving of your position as Keeper. Understood,” she turned to the white-haired man, “husband?”

The man hmphed. Cicero never knew a cold-hearted woman such as Astrid would ever have enough warmth to ensnare a husband. Perhaps it was fitting then that her husband was an assassin as well. That made many thoughts of how she supposedly ran this place as a big happy family run through his head. If she were trying to supplant the Night Mother, she would have to marry someone besides a mere mortal, definitely one the others would consider a brother before father Sithis.

“Oh, yes, yes, yes!” Cicero chuckled, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“But make no mistake,” Astrid was quick to say, “I am the leader of this Sanctuary. My word is law. Are we clear on that point?”

Still, this pretense of being the Brotherhood’s leader. Would she ever learn? “Oh yes, mistress,” Cicero state, feigning enthusiasm, “Perfectly! You're the boss.”

With that, the crowd soon dispersed, but Cicero spent what time he could learning of the other members. This was not merely to socialize, something he had become terrible at from others’ perspective. He learned what they thought. He learned who was loyal to the Night Mother and who he may have to kill when the time came for the Listener’s coming.

The loyalists were few, but nevertheless powerful allies. There was the Shadowscale Argonian, Veezara, who believed this was his place in life to be an assassin after his order was destroyed. Babette, the ancient vampire with the veneer of a mere child, and the old mage called Festus Krex, remembered the way things were and wouldn’t dare oppose the Night Mother. Everyone else would have to be tested by the Listener.

With the allies found, Cicero returned to the Night Mother. Someone had taken the liberty of placing her in a private chamber, someone who he would have to thank later. He could continue to discuss pressing issue with the Night Mother without the worry of eavesdroppers. There was little place in the near barren room to hide, so it was very much a private chamber.

“Are we alone?” he questioned, listening as no one emerged, “Yes, yes, alone. Sweet solitude. No one will hear us, disturb us. Everything is going according to plan. The others, I've spoken to them. And they're coming around, I know it. The wizard, Festus Krex, perhaps even the Argonian, and the un-child, about you? Have you spoken to anyone?”

Cicero had been patient. He waited for someone to emerge as the Listener for many years, but no one ever did. Not since Alisanne Dupre had there been a listener, and she was slain near fourteen years ago. This was the fall of the Brotherhood in his mind: No Listener, no Speakers, no Brotherhood.

“No,” he whimpered, leading into anger, “No, of course not.”

He continued with his enraged screaming, “I do the talking, the stalking, the seeing and saying! And what do you do? Nothing!”

He soon realized what he said and was ashamed. “Not,” he stuttered, “not that I'm angry! No, never! Cicero understands. Heh. Cicero always understands! And obeys! You will talk when you're ready, won't you? Won't you,” he sighed, “sweet Night Mother.”  
“Oh, but how can I defend you?” he whimpered, “How can I exert your will? If you will not speak? To anyone!”

He energy was fading, he was sad. He felt like the Brotherhood failed Sithis if all that did happen happened and it wasn’t getting any better.

And so did he. “Poor Cicero has failed you. Poor Cicero is sorry, sweet mother. I've tried, so awfully hard. But I just can't find the Listener.”

He let the silence fall. And then a noise. The Night Mother’s coffin was open. Stood in front of it, looking away was a Redguard woman in the shrouded armor of the Brotherhood. She had been hiding in the Night Mother’s coffin! Such sacrilege was beyond unforgivable.

“What?” he shrieked, holding his dagger tight, “What treachery! Defiler! Debaser and defiler! You have violated the sanctity of the Night Mother's coffin! Explain yourself! Speak, worm!”

The blasphemer was not afraid. She looked into Cicero’s eyes with no fear, an uncommon sight, and simply said, “Darkness rises when silence dies.”

Impossible. It was impossible she would know that. Only two people would know those words: The Night Mother’s Keeper was one. The other one was…

…the Listener.

* * *

Rena and Alary set forth within the day to Hjaalmarch. Of course, Rena chose to take weapons and armor that didn’t denote her Legion status. It wasn’t because she didn’t want to be treated differently, but that she couldn’t justify using it outside the Legion’s efforts. She knew there were some who did so, but they would often bring shame to the Empire with their selfish ambitions. Rena wouldn’t be accused of a lack of discretion.

The travel took up a fair bit of time, but nothing Rena wasn’t used to. Alary, though, likely knew nothing outside of Riften, so care had to be taken, since this was the third day in a row she was traveling across holds. Horses were bought to make the way easier; Squishy for Alary (not its name; she named him) and Martin for Rena. She called all her horses Martin; made it easier to remember. Both were Palominos, a creamed-furred breed. They were much appreciated.

They did come upon Dead Man’s Respite and dismounted. It was a Nordic tomb from the look of things, but there were no dangers ahead of them. Nothing at the entrance implied a danger, only an altar in the porch. Still, Rena knew these places were breeding grounds for frostfall spiders and were typically kept by draugr, so she kept her shield raised.

When they entered the tomb, they followed the hallway an antechamber. Within that were things less notable than the ghost of a man, playing a lute before them. Rena had only heard of ghosts and their nature, so knew not if this one could be trusted. Alary, though, less frightened than Rena would expect of the jittery girl.

“Svaknir?” Alary inquired.

The ghost’s melody ceased, and the lute disappeared. He turned around walked into a door, disappearing himself. Rena checked and there were pullies or switches to open the door.

With no way of following at the moment, Rena asked, “How did you guess who that was?”

Alary looked caught in an instant. “Well, Viarmo gave me the name of the bard most likely to have written the Poetic Edda,” she explained with a slight stutter, “and I figured it had to be him.”

Rena was impressed with Alary for the moment, but then started kicking herself for not using her own head. Nordic tombs tend to use a gem carving of a dragon claw to access the deeper chambers, and there was one of ruby placed in the altar at the center of the room. If there were a way to reach the ghost, it would be with the claw.

And then Rena noticed there were hallways around the door. She really felt like an idiot after that.

Rena and Alary went deeper into the tomb, taking the ruby claw with them. Throughout, there were many a draugr, but they were easily slain with Alary’s magic. She knew a few Destruction spells, mostly fire-base ones, and they proved advantageous. Rena was impressed with her ability but wondered how she knew this magic. Was there something she would want to know?

Eventually, they came upon a chamber and the ghost again. This time, he was sat atop a rock that overlooked a corpse left there that was left with no sarcophagus to protect it. It’s clothes had been taken by time and likely termites, but a book remained. Alary took the book from the corpse and the ghost grew a smile, though perhaps that was how Rena observed it.

It took a moment for Alary to read it. Rena was glad she could at least read. “Well, fuck,” Alary sighed.

“Language!” Rena snapped. She didn’t want the girl to have such a bad habit as swearing later in life.

Alary was shook by the sudden raised voice but collected herself. She raised the book for Rena to see its contents. The pages were damaged, like from age, and black mold had taken to destroyed the paper. There were still lines remaining, but the whole of its contents weren’t legible.

“Well, Viarmo is going to be upset,” Rena remarked, “Hopefully, we can find a way to fix things.”

“I don’t know,” Alary refused, “At the College, they said there’s a point where magic has no ability because mortals would have not the strength to use it.”

Rena was amused. “Bards said that?” she questioned.

Alary shook her head hesitantly. “I was talking about the College of Winterhold,” she clarified.

Rena was confused. “You were a student at Winterhold?” she questioned.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Alary shot out and began leaving the chamber.

Rena was surprised. She knew this was the likely reason for Alary’s skill in magic, but how she came to Riften was beyond Rena’s imagination. The Mages’ College was a place of learning, a place where the wizards learned their trade in any school of magic they desired. How did such a talent as Alary fall so far into the path of a pickpocket? Rena wanted to know, but she was certain it was a painful memory for Alary.

As they made their way out, it was clear the way was shut. The doors were closed, though by who wasn’t something Rena could be certain of. There was only thing Rena could be certain of: the ruby claw might prove a key to their escape. In Bleak Falls Barrow, the claw Skathi recovered lead them finding other exit. Hopefully, her assumptions of the maze that was ancient Nordic architecture would prove advantageous.

They did find the door and Rena used the claw to solve the expected puzzle needed to open it. Passing through the open way, they came up a grand room with the ghost at the center. Rena was uncertain as to why the ghost would still be here. What other business had it in this realm?

“Arise, Olaf!” the ghost did declare, “My vengeance is at hand!”

The room echoed with “Insolent Bard. Die!”

On the other side of the room was a throne with a draugr sat in it. It rose at the ghost declaration. Rena had only one guess as to who this could be. King Olaf of whom was recorded in the Poetic Edda, a king of Skyrim in the ancient times. He grew the province’s boarders to where they were today, as the Reach. He would be no easy opponent.

The one-eyed draugr drew his sword to face Rena, Alary and the ghost, and they did battle. To its aid came other draugr, likely his shield-siblings in life. Alary did light to room ablaze to protect them and Rena kept Olaf at bay with her shield. She couldn’t slay him, and she knew that, but she could keep his blade from killing the source of the flame.

Eventually, the shield rent, and Rena had to dispose of it lest be weighed down by it. Rena blocked with her blade was the only thing keeping her from Olaf’s fatal blade when a ghostly sword cut through his chest. It didn’t stop him, but it did stagger him long enough for Rena to cut his sword arm off and removed his head, letting the draugr corpse fall to the ground.

The ghost looked so proud of this victory. He gave a curtsy and was gone. Rena knew he had no business left in the mortal world.

And yes, Rena and Alary did find a way out from there.

* * *

Jeanne spent the better part of her day packing and preparing for going to Riften. She had been living in Windhelm for a total of two weeks whenever she wasn’t travelling if that. Turns out, this is where a lot of the useless junk she collected on her journey’s went. Empty bottles, some of which weren’t booze, were right alongside artifacts that had no use to anyone because no one would start a museum of Nord artifacts.

Nevertheless, she was off the next day to Riften. Well, she first went to Whiterun to pay her debt, but that was another day. The journey was mostly unremarkable, only the odd wandering animal in her path. She made it to Fort Greenwall uneventfully, which is when things got interesting. See, to Jeanne’s understanding, Greenwall was an Ebony mining village that had since been abandoned after the mine ran dry and everyone moved to Shor’s Stone. All that was left was the fort, which became incredibly important, as it stood in the way of any invasion from Eastmarch.

The Imperial garrison at the fort was warry of travelers. Anyone coming or going would have to explain themselves and Jeanne knew that. She gave some truth, being an apprentice to a court wizard that was moving to Riften to learn from another. What she didn’t tell them was that she was apprentice to Wuunferth the Unliving, she wasn’t certain could learn anything useful from Riften’s court wizard, and she was a sky for the Stormcloaks. She didn’t have any identifying material in her, the garrison couldn’t prove anything. Well, they didn’t have to, but they would.

Upon coming to Riften, it was closer to dusk. Jeanne was tired from a day of travel and she was ready for warm food, a hearth, and a bed to rest her head. That idea was slightly interrupted by the gate guards.

“Hold there,” one of them said, “Before I let you into Riften, you need to pay the visitor's tax.”

That struct Jeanne as odd. “What's the tax for?” she asked. No such tax existed in High Rock, so no such tax could exist elsewhere, not even Cyrodiil.

The other guard look at her confused. “For the privilege of entering the city,” he clarified, “What does it matter?”

Well, there was another gate, so why was she trying this closed door. “Forget it. I'll come back.”

“Don't want in, huh?” the first guard snarked, “Fine. Have a good walk to the next city.”

Jeanne rolled her eyes as she went around the entire city, which took an awfully long time, straight into nightfall. She approached the gate and was met by another two guards.

“Hold and stand down,” one of them ordered, “If you want to get into Riften, use the North Gate. This one's closed.”

Jeanne want someone to tell her this was part of a wider scam. “Why? What's going on?” she asked, letting her stress be incredibly obvious.

“My orders are to tell the riff-raff to use the North Gate,” the guard explained, “that's it.”

It was part of a wider scam. Jeanne was certain of that. Her first impression of the city was that was a corrupt, seedy little den of greed no one should ever live in. And you know what? Even though it was under the rule of the Empire directly now, it was obviously still true. What a terrible city.

No matter, really; Jeanne had a mission to accomplish and these two had no business stopping her. She was going to use the north gate, as no one would question that. However, she wouldn’t be paying a single gold coin.

Jeanne went to her horse and took off the saddle bags. She made of show of it and going into the woods so the guards would see it. Her intent was to make the guards believe she would be camping, seeing as how it wasn’t an ideal time for travel. What she would do instead was throw a fireball into the bushes and let the flame distract the guards.

She ran out of the woods with her belonging under her arm, shouting, “Fire! Fire!”

The guards leapt into action, opening the gate, and sounding the alarm. While they were responding to the flames, Jeanne snuck past them. Yes, it was irresponsible to start fires like that, but she was certain the guards could handle. She even saw a battlemage running in with ice magic in his hands, so it was certainly going to be easy to fine.

As she entered the city, there was a brute in her path. Pale as the snow, but strong as the wind, he seemed, as did his armor. A person like this had to be a mercenary, for no common thug or bandit has steel armor.

“I don't know you,” he remarked, “You in Riften lookin' for trouble?”

Jeanne had enough of brutes today. “What's it to you?”

The brute’s expression became hard as stone if it weren’t before. “Don't say something you'll regret,” he growled like a wolf, “Last thing the Black-Briars need is some loudmouth tryin' to meddle in their affairs.”

“Who are the Black-Briars?” Jeanne asked. She knew who they were, as one of them was Jarl, but she wanted to hear it from someone under their rule.

“The Black-Briars have Riften in their pocket and the Thieves Guild watchin' their back,” the brute explained, “so keep your nose out of their business. Me? I'm Maul. I watch the streets for 'em. If you need dirt on anythin', I'm your guy, but it'll cost you.”

Fascinating how that sounded like it wouldn’t change if Laila Law-Giver was in charge or not. “Here,” he said as she took out her coin purse, “what can you tell me?”

Jeanne checked the purse, and it was clear to both the traveler and the brute that she didn’t have the money. There were so few coins that you could see the bottom! How Jeanne expected to pay Maul off was anyone’s guess. No, don’t guess; I expect yours to be really dirty.

“You don't have enough to earn my loyalty,” Maul spat.

Before she could be beaten or worse, Jeanne bolt away from the brute as fast as she could. However, due to her lenience on liquor that was getting unbearable after a day of sobriety left her smashing her face into a wall. She fell over to find the sign of the Bee and the Barb. Jeanne figured it was a tavern and picked herself up to enter. She could use a stiff drink.

“People of Riften, heed my words!”

These words came from a priest in the center of the bar. The robes were the common orange, so nothing to say who he worshiped, but anyone with common sense could tell his patron. The city was known for the temple of Mara, this was a priest. Unless he came from the morgue, there was no doubt he was a priest of Mara. Jeanne wasn’t going to like this, was she?

“The return of the dragons is not mere coincidence,” he proclaimed, “This is one of the signs. The signs that Lady Mara is displeased with your constant inebriation. Put down your flagons filled with your vile liquids and embrace the teachings of the handmaiden of Kyne.”

As one of the bar staff came to confront him, Jeanne tried to forget what she heard. Mara definitely wasn’t found of drunks, and Jeanne was a drunk, so she tried not become overwhelmed by her inadequacies. It didn’t help her nerves that she was at the bar itself. Just a bottle of Surlie Brothers and she’d be doing fine.

“Jeanne?” came a familiar voice.

The Breton turned to her right to see she’d sat right next to a familiar Dunmer: Ravani Faren. Would this ridiculous day ever end?


	8. Chapter 8

Of the things Ravani expected, seeing Jeanne wasn’t one of them, especially in the state she was in. The Breton girl had certain lost weight, but she not without losing sleep. That was one explanation for the bloodshot eyes, and the stale alcohol on her breath was another. It was likely the truce hadn’t been treating her right.

“Leave me alone,” she slurred as she left the inn.

Their reunion clearly wasn’t part of Jeanne’s plans, and Ravani didn’t even know she was still alive. She expected her to be slain at the Battle for Whiterun, or elsewhere in the war if that. Then again, when the Stormcloak guards talked about The Breton of One Arrow Short, she should’ve guessed that was Jeanne. I mean, how many Bretons did she know were in the warband? Then again, a pudgy noble’s daughter didn’t exactly fit the profile to be spoken of with such revere as the Dragonborn, Ulfric Stormcloak or Dagrun Blood-Maiden.

But regardless, Ravani wasn’t going to just let Jeanne go. Anyone who carried a sword and smelled of liquor wasn’t the sort you leave alone, especially at night. Whatever happened after the war was put on pause, she hadn’t coped well. Whether a mere wandering sellsword or a merchant with wears in Riften, Jeanne didn’t need alcohol to sustain her.

The Dunmer veteran followed outside into the night. She spotted the fiery scene at the gate, which looked like mischief to her. She also spotted Jeanne at the handrails, looking like she was posing for some Nibenese romantic’s painting about failing love. Of course, Ravani would have to take their word for it; they always looked like they were going kill themselves.

“You know,” Ravani remarked, “I’ve already been in the drink this week. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Jeanne turned to meet the Dunmer. Her eyes were bloodshot with tears. “You betrayed us,” she stuttered, “You sold us out for the Legion. We were just pawns to you!”

Ravani knew she deserved that. While she had reasons for selling out the Stormcloaks, but no one knew them but her. She didn’t explain how the dragons changed things for her and she believed the Stormcloaks needed to stop so they could fight the beasts before there wasn’t a Skyrim left to fight over. It would’ve garnered some sympathy, but she wasn’t one for words, just actions.

“It wasn’t personal,” Ravani explained, “I thought what I was doing was best for Skyrim.”

“Best for Skyrim!?” Jeanne questioned with a shrieking voice, “The Empire doesn’t care about Skyrim; they just want territory!”

“They seemed like the best choice to deal with the dragons!” Ravani snapped back.

“Like that matters now!”

And like that, Jeanne tripped and fell onto her face. Ravani was mostly confused, rather than concerned. Drunkards tend to hurt themselves in worse ways than that. She wasn’t even sure why she was arguing; liquor doesn’t accept constructive criticism.

“Why?” Jeanne whimpered, “Why did you do it?”

“I told you,” Ravani repeated, crouching down to get on the same level as her previous comrade, “I wanted to stop the dragons by ending the war sooner.”

“No,” the crying girl asked, “why did you abandon me?”

Ravani hadn’t thought of it that way. Had all this been because of her? Unlikely, but young folk tend to have weird reasons for being heartbroken. She’s been one, she knows. Still, Ravani felt like a convenient thing to blame. She’d seen fellow Stormcloaks and Legionnaires that devolved into drunks as their careers brought them into harsher battles. Thirty surviving Legionnaires of the Battle of Fort Kastav came to know Sanguine’s curse that she knew of.

“I didn’t mean to abandon you,” the Dunmer explained, “I thought I was doing the right thing. It doesn’t matter now.”

Jeanne just stayed on the ground, whimpering. She’d likely broken something. Ravani picked her up and found that the Breton girl had broken her nose, blood spilling from her nostrils. The Dunmer took a small healing potion from her satchel and forced the girl to drink it. She clearly didn’t like the taste, but there were more important things to deal with than taste.

“It wasn’t my intention to hurt you,” Ravani explained, “I just wanted to do the right thing.”

Jeanne nodded, still sobbing. Ravani doubted the girl truly forgave her. In the morning, she’d likely forget everything. Advantageous for a thief, that. Ravani got a jug of milk for the poor girl and let her drink as much as she desired. On those railings, they just sat, looking vaguely at the night sky.

“So,” Ravani interjected, “how’s life?”

“I’m an adventurer,” Jeanne said between swigs of milk.

“Ah, broken any bones yet?” the Dunmer attempted a bit of levity.

Jeanne just rubbed her nose. Must’ve either that good at adventuring or horrifically dull. There was a lot to do for an adventure in Skyrim, and lots of idiots have lost their lives to that lot. Ravani only hoped she wouldn’t be one of those idiots, but there was room for mistakes.

“What was your best adventure so far?” Ravani asked.

Jeanne thought about it for a moment. “Well, I can’t say which was best or which was a favorite,” she admitted, “but I found an ancient Aetherium forge.”

Ravani assumed that was impressive. “Nice,” she remarked, “and have you had any lovers?”

Jeanne shook her head. “You?”

“Well, you can’t really get a lover when you don’t want one,” Ravani remarked.

“You’ve said such things before,” Jeanne stated, “I still think you’re just be cold.”

Ravani chuckled. She remembered back to when other children spoke of their crushes. Some liked girls, other liked boys, some just don’t care as long as they looked cute. Every time when it came to Ravnai, she just shrugged. They always said to give it time. Well, it’s been some time and she’s never had as much as a crush. Nobody believed her when she said she didn’t feel like she was missing out on anything. Everyone said to give it time. Well, she felt like she’d die of old age with all the time she was giving. Romance just didn’t excite her, neither did the pleasures of the flesh.

“I’m not cold,” the Dunmer remarked, “it’s just Skyrim.”

Jeanne laughed. No matter where they went, the weather was always cold. “Want to get a drink?” she asked.

“Nah,” Ravani stated, “Besides, I think you’ve had too many.”

“I haven’t had one.”

Ravani doubted that. “If this is what you acted sober,” she remarked, “I wouldn’t want to see what you’re like drunk.”

From that point, the night devolved, if you can believe that. Let’s just say, Ravani wasn’t one to spread the shame around, and I’ll respect that attitude. Go ask Jeanne what happened.

* * *

Agata tried to figure out what she would say as she approached Fort Dawnguard. She wasn’t sure how to put “I found what was in Dimhallow Crypt. It was a vampire that I escorted to her coven. My sister, your newest recruit and a Dragonborn, is now a member of said coven.” Well, at least not in a way that didn’t sound terrible. It was but trying to work through how to convey it with tact was her issue.

She was still trying to process those events herself. Something that she’d never been able to process was how Skathi just killed a man when she was a child. It probably sunk her family faster than an economic recession. She couldn’t think of any other reason her sister would go down the vampire’s path other than satisfying a cannibalistic impulse she’d been sating elsewhere, as tenuous as it is.

And what was an Elder Scroll?

Upon entering the fort, she found Isran in the center of the main chamber. Agata wasn’t sure what he was doing. Sentry duty? Waiting for someone? Finding the one place to be left alone for once? It was easy to be alone in this giant thing, so that was unlikely.  
“So, any luck?” the vampire hunter asked, looking away from whatever he was before and turning to the poor Nord, “Was Tolan right about the vampires being interested in Dimhollow Crypt?”

Agata had almost forgotten what happened there, but she summoned what memories she could find. “Tolan was right,” she replied, trying to hide any hint of pain, “And he's dead. The vampires killed him.”

“Damn fool,” he sighed, “I told him not to go. The Vigilants always had more bravery than sense. Did you at least find out what the vampires were looking for in there?”

“It seems they were looking for a woman who was sealed in a crypt,” she continued.

Isran gave a look of subtle confusion. “That doesn't make much sense,” he remarked, “Where is this woman? Who is she?”

“Her name was Serana. She's the daughter of a powerful vampire lord and she’s in a castle off the coast of Haafinger,” she explained, “They also have an Elder Scroll.” She was looking for an opportunity to maybe get an explanation about what that was.

“They what?” Isran almost barked, “And you didn't stop them? You didn't secure the scroll?”

“I'm lucky I made it out alive,” Agata shot back, “They have Skathi.” She got that out before her eyes were welling up again. She wasn’t ready to cried in front of this man.

Isran’s demeaning was slightly less hostile. Slightly. “Right. So, they have this woman,” he recounted, “the Dragonborn, and an Elder Scroll.”

It was hard to deny this was a terrible situation. She didn’t know what an Elder Scroll was, nor what it could be used for, but Isran seemed to know and he was close to rage. And a Dragonborn on the side of Molag Bal’s abominations was surely a sign of the end times. Her sister was gone again, though whether that was bad or good was a matter for her to debate herself.

“By the Divines,” Isran muttered, “this couldn't get much worse. This is more than you and I can handle.”

“So, you're just going to give up?” Agata said while trying to wipe away tears before they could leave her eyes.

“When did I say that? We just need,” the vampire hunter paused, “we need help. If they're bold enough to attack us here, then this may be bigger than I thought. I have good men here, but,” he looked around to check who was paying attention, “There are people I've met and worked with over the years. We need their skills, their talents, if we're going to survive this. If you can find them, we might have a chance.”

At least for now, there was something. “Where can I find the people we need?” she asked.

“Right to the point, aren't you?” Isran grinned, “I like that. Not like those fools in the order. We should keep it small. Too many people, and we'll draw unwanted attention to ourselves. I think we'll want Sorine Jurard. Breton girl, whip-smart and good with tinkering. Fascination with the Dwemer. Weapons in particular. Last I knew, she was out in the Reach, convinced she was about to find the biggest dwarven ruins yet.”

In Agata’s experience, a Breton academic was hard to convince of anything beyond academia. Not to say this Sorine was academic, but she hadn’t had success trying to get them to join her endeavors. “She'll help us?” she asked.

“Might need a little convincing, but she should,” Isran replied, “You'll also want to find Gunmar. Big brute of a Nord hates vampires almost as much as I do. Got it into his head years back that his experience with animals would help. Trolls in particular, from what I hear. Last I knew, he was out scouring Skyrim for more beasts to tame. Bring the two of them back here, and we can get started on coming up with a plan.”

Agata nodded, but now was the time for rest. She had taken much of yesterday and today to get here.

But she could find no simple rest. She had, on occasion, cooked a recreation of her father’s venison recipe he had adapted from an Orcish recipe. Rarely did she have the ingredients to cook it, so whenever she had the opportunity, she cooked it. This time when she cooked it, let it rest and everything, she didn’t find it appetizing.

She wondered why her favorite dish didn’t excited her right now. She thought back to Skathi and how she didn’t like as much as Agata did, how she always saved an extra slice of her mother’s apple pie in the morning whenever she say the venison come in. Their mother’s apple pie was always great. She never remembered how she made it. Whenever they had the far more expensive Horker loaf meanwhile, Skathi always ate her fourth. No one could quite get it.

Agata always wondered why was so different about Skathi. She wore what she liked, not just what she was given. She always took a while to learn a lesson, especially arithmetic. And why did she think killing him would solve anything? Agata never quite got it.

The poor Nord left her dinner to go to the stables. She’d ridden for miles before discovering she had ridden Skathi’s horse instead of her own. She’d named her horse after their mother, bless her soul. The horse itself seemed sweet and obedient, but she noticed a sadness in its eyes with Skathi’s absence. Beforehand, she never noticed if her horse was mad or sad or happy. Horny though, that was obvious.

Agata ran her hand through the mare’s mane in sympathy. “I know Skathi’s gone now,” she cooed, “I don’t know if I can get her back, but I’ll go through an Oblivion Gate to get her back.

The stead nuzzled Agata’s face, as if a thanks. Agata meant every word she said.

When she returned to her dinner, she found her venison gone and Durak over the plate. “You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to get authentic Orcish venison out here,” he explained, “Most of Eastern Nord cuisine is so mild.”

Agata sighed. When they got reinforcements, they would be as welcome as the second coming of Martin Septim.

* * *

Skathi awoke still tired. It felt as though she had simply been laid out on a stone floor instead of sleeping in a bed. At first, she couldn’t remember how she went to sleep, but then it came to her that she accepted Lord Harkon’s “gift”. Ah, such a gift that gave her such a splitting headache. This was so much for her to accept in such a short time.

As soon as she could understand she was awake, she picked herself up as best she could. She fought a strangely intense weakness to even lift herself up. She was also hungry, hungrier than she normally was for just waking up. She assumed this was that vampiric bloodlust everyone knows by reputation.

As soon as she regained her eyesight, she saw Lord Harkon before her. He was stood upon a dais, but instead of a throne was a strange fountain. It was made of stone so dark, it almost blended into the shadows. Instead of water, blood poured from the mouth of a head that could only be described as Daedric.

Harkon spoke up. “Awake at last, good. The power is growing within you, and now you must learn to wield it.” His voice dripped with carnal joy, barely hidden disdain, and a false pride. Well, as best she could make out, he was.  
“What happened?” Skathi asked, still muggy, “How did I get here?”

“My blood is potent,” the vampire lord explained, “At first, the body is overwhelmed by it. After my bite, you collapsed and fell into a slumber. Now your flesh has acclimated to the new blood that courses through your veins. I assure you, no harm was done. In truth, your strength surprises me. Not all mortals can withstand my embrace.”

Any memory Skathi could conjure up of the transformation was searing pain like she’d never had before. It was painful, impossibly so. Nothing else and nothing distinct.

“What is this place?” she asked.

“A shrine to Molag Bal,” Harkon explained with naked respect, perhaps his only honest emotion, “mighty Daedra Prince who is father to all our kind. Our power is a blessing from him. It is he who first bestowed the gift of the ancient blood upon me.”

“You made a pact with Molag Bal?” Skathi inquired, not believing anyone could be so power hungry to be so willfully ignorant.

“In an age long forgotten to history, I ruled as a mighty king,” Harkon explained with fervor, “My domain was vast, my richness endless and my power infinite. And yet, as my mortal life neared an end, I faced a seemingly invincible enemy,” he continued with like a priest in the street, “my own mortality. I pledged myself to Molag Bal, and in his name I sacrificed a thousand innocents. In reward, he gave everlasting life to me, my wife, and my daughter. And so, I have defeated mortality itself.”

Skathi noted that she should probably kill Harkon, if given the chance. It may be difficult to convince others of the need, as the court has probably centuries of rapport with their lord, but even they have to know he’s a monster.

“I'm ready to learn about my new powers,” the Dragonborn stated.

Harkon smiled. “With my guidance you will become a deadly instrument,” he remarked, “striking terror in the hearts of mortals wherever you tread. Now, listen to my words and do as I instruct. The true power of the ancient blood is found in the form of the Vampire Lord. Assume the mantle of the Vampire Lord, and we will continue.”

Skathi assumed he meant the form he displayed when she was first turned. She was unsure how to transform at first, but a little niggle in her mind told her there was a brand-new lock within her and the only way to unlock it was her command. And so, she commanded it.

The transformation shot pain through her body. Parts of her body crunched and shrunk to accommodate the form she demanded come forth. She was unsure if there was a part of her body that didn’t feel this horrifying change. When it was all over, Harkon appeared surprised. Skathi tried not to notice it. He didn’t expect something, but quickly seemed to disregard it.

“In this form,” the vampire lord explained, “you can drain the life from your foes with your right hand.”

In Skathi’s right hand was red energy. It was much like the energy she had seen other vampires use against her. They must’ve been weak to not be able to affect her badly.

“With your left hand,” Harkon continued, “you can wield the power of blood magic to raise the dead.”

In Skathi’s left hand was a blue energy. She hadn’t seen necromancers with such energies before, so she assumed there was something different in the origin or application of this necromancy.

“You can also call upon the powers of night to turn into a swarm of bats and reappear some distance away,” he continued, “Should you run out of magicka, you can descend to the ground and fight as the beasts do. Do so now and we will continue.”

It was then Skathi noticed she wasn’t on the ground. She was hovering above with some minor magical feat. She demanded her form to descend and she was on the ground again. She stumbled for a moment, as her new form was clumsy to use, especially compared to her typical body.

“Good,” Harkon remarked before continuing his lesson, “You are weaker while on the ground, because you cannot access the blood magic. However, the night powers are still yours to command, and your claws are still formidable weapons. Over time, your powers will grow in strength and you will find new ways to use your gifts.”

He continued, “There is much to learn, but if you master the powers of the Vampire Lord, few enemies will be able to stand against you.”

Skathi was hesitant to even accept these powers. They came with such cost that she wasn’t even comfortable in her skin. But she had a reason to embrace this path. She would share it with no one. Well, perhaps one. Just one.

“There is one last thing you must know,” Harkon added, “Slaying mortal men with your life drain grants your new night powers and blood magic. I keep a stable of thralls in the castle should you need to feed like the baser vampires to stave off the sun. That is all I have to teach you. If you wish to be reminded of these lessons, you need only ask. I have a task that will test your new powers, but first, do you have any questions?”

“No,” Skathi stated, confident she would learn what she needed on in action, “I'm ready to carry out this task.”

“Good,” the vampire lord smiled, “Go and speak to Garan Marethi. Tell him it is time. He will understand.”

As Harkon left, Skathi returned to her Nordic form. It was painful, but a relief compared to being in that Vampire Lord form.

Before she could leave though, Skathi beheld a man tied up and in a rough tunic. He was one of the “human cattle” they kept to feed upon, she assumed. He appeared frightened, like he lacked any power over his fate. He didn’t. Skathi did and she would set him free if it meant anything. As it stood, his escape would be discovered by another vampire and he would surely die, and Skathi would be punished as she still hungered.

So, Skathi bit on his neck and fed. And she hated herself for every drop of blood she took. She chose this. She would try to make it up to this poor creature, but that may make it worse.

The “human cattle” was left alive, still standing, unaffected by vampirism. Skathi left him to see what task Harkon had set out for her.

* * *

The previous night had been a lot for Jeanne. A lot of liquor, mostly, but Ravani’s Ravani was a shakeup of things. It had been a while since she dealt with such a blunt person. Eoni always felt like she half-lying to her, Mikaela wouldn’t give her the time of day, Ulfric could pull his punches if he felt he needed, and Jeanne never stayed around anyone else to remember or discover their personalities. Ravani just told her she was an idiot, which maybe she needed.

Jeanne’s drinking had gotten unhealthy and she knew it. The feeling she was mistaken in everything she did had followed her since before the truce. It didn’t matter what she did; all she believed was that she was an absolute degenerate scumbag with the moral fiber of a dishcloth stained over twenty years of use and more holes in it than the thrice ruined city of Orsinium. She was almost as bad as her hangover.

She only entered the market square to find a remedy for her headache. That Brynjolf was selling Falmer blood elixir, which is the oldest trick in High Rock, so the Nords must have been really stupid to not throw him out of town on a treadmill. She searched for ginger, tangerines, and brown sugar to mix up her alchemy teacher’s remedy, but none of those things were in Skyrim. As it turns out, Elves Ear was the preferable cure, as it was available and affordable.

Still, Jeanne chose to leave the market to nurse her hangover, as the noises were sure to split her head open. If she hadn’t done that, she might’ve missed the scene she found. A short Nord was talking to an armored woman, tall and fair, with an empty scabbard on her back. She was adjusting her greaves while in conversation with the short man, which Jeanne eavesdropped on with bated breath. She was, to the Breton’s standards, woefully attractive.

“I had another run-in with the Thieves’ Guild,” the woman explained with a voice as rough as honey.

“Be careful, Mjoll,” the short man near scolded in his meek voice, “The Thieves’ Guild has Maven Black-Briar at her beck and call. One snap of her fingers, and you could end up in Riften Jail or worse.”

“They represent the reason I'm here,” the woman, Mjoll, retorted as she finished fiddling with her armor, “I can't just ignore them, Aerin.”

“I know,” the short man sighed, “I just don't want you to leave; you're the only good thing that's happened to this city in a long time.”

It was interesting to observe this city’s situation, having little experience with it before. It was clear these people believed their Jarl was corrupt and their only faith in was her as a power-mad tyrant. Considering the Legionnaires’ being clearly corrupted by this influence, she would certainly have something to send to Galmar for the report, provided her letters weren’t intercepted by the jackbooted Imperials.

However, Jeanne was easily distracted. She was quite taken with this Mjoll. She was clearly a morally outstanding woman, and a determined one at that, which was good to have in this city. What’s more, she was, in Jeanne’s own eyes, touched by Dibella’s blessing. It wasn’t her ratty blonde hair, or her green warpaint, but something Jeanne couldn’t quite put her finger on. She didn’t get it, but most fools in love don’t.

Though Jeanne knew such a thing as love at first sight was only in fairy tales. And why were some things in fairy tales? To justify, to romanticize them so they could be normalized and be considered good, despite them not being right at all. Love at first sight was just a construct, she was told by her cynical Destruction teacher, so that old lords could justify taking a fair maiden half his daughter’s age to bed because his own wife had aged like cheese.

“Hello there,” that honey voice said.

Jeanne looked out from her corner to see Mjoll had spotted her. “Hi,” Jeanne mumbled.

“You're a stranger here too, eh?” the warrior woman asked.

“Is it obvious?” Jeanne replied. She was nervous around this woman and hoped to not embarrass herself.

Mjoll smirked, seeming to catch onto Jeanne’s everything. “You dress like you’ll be Horker hunting today,” she cracked.

Jeanne had gotten quite used to dressing in thick layers for the Windhelm weather, which was around ten degrees too warm for the Rift. “I suppose I am,” Jeanne tried to crack as she undid her coat. Perhaps she could sell it; Zenithar knew she needed the coin. “You're not from Riften?”

“I've been adventuring across Tamriel since I was a fresh-faced young woman barely able to swing a blade,” Mjoll explained with pride, “My travels have taken me from High Rock to Valenwood, Elsweyr to Morrowind and all points in between.”

This impressed Jeanne. To have such a history, she would have to be much older than Jeanne originally assumed, but perhaps that was a good thing. “Why are you here, then?” she asked.

Mjoll’s confidence faded with a hint of shame. “Many years ago, I lost my blade, Grimsever, within a Dwarven ruin,” she explained, “I took it as a sign that I was wasting my time in search of wealth.” The deadness in her eyes was clearly showing how much this affected her and still did.

But she shook it and regained her smirk. “You and I are alike,” Mjoll remarked, “We seek challenge and great fortune. But for me, that's where the similarities end. You see, Riften is my great beast to be slain and my fortune comes from gratitude and trust.”

Jeanne was charmed by her naivety. Mjoll was so certain she could change Riften’s situation, even though her own words implied that it was terrible since before Jarl Maven’s rule, and that was under a woman with a strong sense of law. But also, there was something in being called an adventurer when she was a spy that made her smile. It was the same way her parents smile she she’d call her father a war hero; he didn’t even fight in the Great War.

“Well, I wish you victory in your hunt,” Jeanne remarked.

“And I do to you,” Mjoll replied, giving the Breton a slap on the shoulder. Her arm was as strong as the northern winds.

The two parted ways and Jeanne was certain she needed to find work. She traded one of her potions for the Elves Ears nursing her hangover and she certainly wouldn’t be able to do that forever. She went to the Bee and the Barb, looking for the odd job. It was clear she would need to act as a sellsword again.

Upon leaving the Bee and Barb with sword at her hip, she caught the sight of the temple of Mara. She had to remind herself that this place was holy ground of Her Lady, it was so dark. She was tempted to enter Her place of worship, for she hadn’t done anything of the sort since leaving High Rock. But still, she felt it wasn’t right. She had changed, she had done what was evil in Mara’s eyes. She couldn’t return.

She existed the city and led her horse to leave the city, tracking a bounty.

* * *

Agata set out in the morning to find Isran’s key recruits. Between the two, she decided to look of Gunmar first, as he didn’t have an exact location while Sorine could be found in the Rift easily enough. Well, it was still the Rift, but the poor Nord didn’t have an inkling as to where Gunmar might be. She resolved to do the hardest task first.

As someone who traveled the province for over a decade, she knew ways to keep your money flowing and where to stay when you don’t have the coin for a house. Taverns tend to have beds for ten Septims, you can get easy coin for chopping firewood, lumbermills have woods to cut and sell. There were ways to find board cheap, even discounting the idea that he was staying with friends.

Agata discounted the major cities, like Riften, Windhelm and Whiterun, as they wouldn’t be as close to wild beasts as he would prefer. Smaller towns, like Shor’s Stone, Kynesgrove or Riverwood, that’s where she’d find people who had seen him.

And oddly, that’s where she found him. The miners Shor’s Stone, at the edge of the Rift, had seen him. He was a passing wanderer that was given coin to deal with the spider infestation in the mine. Frostfall Spiders mind you, size of dogs, those beasts. Apparently, he was headed for Fallowstone Cave, going south. Agata probably could’ve seen him on the road, though who’s to say he takes the road?

Agata was given the exact directions to the cave and trotted along. No point in exhausting Kili. Agata couldn’t get used to Kili. First there was treating this horse as indispensable, second was calling a horse her mother’s name. Skathi was definitely sentimental, but that didn’t save her from a vampire’s hypnotic suggestion.

Without much wait, Agata found who she assumed was Gunmar. He was a red-haired Nord, tall and strong, in ratty scale armor. He was crouched behind a large rock a way away from the cave. He definitely seemed the type to earn his coin from hunting. As Agata approached, he offhandedly waved his hand in a shooing motion. Agata still approached.

The hunter, exacerbated, turned and said, “You there, hold fast! I've tracked this damned bear for two weeks; I'll not let it have any more victims.”

Agata dismounted and crouched next to him behind the rock. “Isran needs your help,” she explained.

“Isran?” Gunmar said surprised and confused, “Needing someone else's help? Never thought I'd hear that.” His demeanor shifted to calmly content and annoyed, “I'm afraid he's a few years too late. I've moved on. I have more important business to attend to. Besides, he can handle anything alone! He assured me so himself. What could he possibly need my help with?”

Agata had to hold back a smirk. “We're up against vampires.”

The hunter raised an eyebrow. “Vampires? That,” he trailed off in thought, “well, that might change things. Tell me more about what's going on.”

“We're not sure,” Agata admitted, “but they have an Elder Scroll.”

“By the Eight,” Gunmar gasped, “All right, look. I'll consider it, but I can't just leave this bear to prey on more innocent people. Once it's dealt with, then perhaps I'll see what Isran expects of me.”

Agata drew her crossbow and locked the bolt in. She was going to help and tried to use this as a demonstration of that. At first, Gunmar looked as though he was amused by being threatened. Agata knew that smirk a little too well, considering she’s been on both ends of that smirk, so she pointed at the cave with the machine. Gunmar just nodded and moved forward.

The two slowly approached the cave, the hunter drawing a bow and arrow. They hadn’t found the bear yet, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t around. They entered and prepared to be jumped.

At first, there was no sign of the bear. The dark of the cave was thick as molasses and just as pitch. And then a bellow of a bear burst through the silence. Agata shot to the source of the noise and saw a brown bear that could fit a full-grown Nord in its monstrous body. It was raised to its full height, a sight Agata had never seen. She wondered how many people saw this and lived.

Gunmar let his arrow loose and stuck the bear in the gut, but it didn’t die. It only lowered itself to charge its invaders. Agata tried to hit it with her crossbow, but the bolt missed its head entirely. She wasn’t used to crossbows just yet, which would perhaps be her undoing.

Gunmar tried to nock another arrow, but the bear charged him and began to claw at him. Agata hadn’t traveled all day to watch her quarry die in a cave. She took her axe from her belt and swung it down to cut into bear’s neck. However, Gunmar chose this time to try wrestling the bear to the ground and the axe barely missed his braids.

“The bear, not me!” he barked in shock.

Agata, in a fit of frustration, kicked the bear in the sides. It didn’t do much but anger the animal and draw its attention. Agata would cower were it not for Gunmar managing to force the bear over. He rolled it over on its back and held it in place as best he could for the strike. Agata saw this better opportunity and smashed it skull with her axe. It broke through and the bear went limp, dead.

Gunmar sighed and stood up just to plop onto the cave walls. Agata, perhaps not as exhausted but still worn, sat beside him, catching their breaths. She didn’t miss this life. Wandering around, doing whatever job she could for coins. The brief vampire hunting she in the past week was better than this. You still traveled, but there was always a hot meal and warm bed somewhere with your name on it.

“Don't know how well I'd have managed by myself,” Gunmar mussed, “You have my thanks. You've helped me, so I suppose the least I can do is find out what Isran wants. He's still at that fort near Stendarr's Beacon, I assume?”

Agata nodded, still panting. “How did you know?” she asked.

“If Isran is anything, he's stubborn,” the hunter said as he took out his flask, “He's been working on that place for years now. Never lets anyone in. His own little fortress. Well, I guess I'll get to see what he's been up to all this time. I'll meet you there.”

Gunmar took a long swig from his flask, picked himself up and exited the cave. That was one person of interest recruited. The next one was in the Reach. Of all the places, why did it have to be the Reach?

* * *

Jeanne’s job was easy enough, given it was just some bandit chief needing to lose his head. She had fought worse than someone playing king of his petty domain. The coin and valuables she scavenged from the dead were much more catching, for they’d probably line her pockets better than the bounty ever would. Morbid, but it was the only pragmatic thing to do.

The bad thing about it was the bag. She had taken a leather bag with her for the stench, but it hardly kept the smell of her quarry’s rotting head from stinking up the ride. If she needed to prove she killed him to claim the bounty, the head would serve that purpose. As though Jeanne’s noise was so understanding.

While on the way back, she heard a noise. It was subtle at first, just a constant serious of thuds. But the further she rode, the louder it became. She halted her stead, Prince Adrien, but the sound grew into a thunderous calamity of uniform noises. It was the familiar sound of one and only one thing: the sound of an army marching.

Taking her horse to a good distance from the road, she found a massive army marching. From the banners and uniforms, it was the Imperial Legion. On Galmar’s intelligence, he was right; they were moving troops into the Rift. Whether or not they were moving them through Stormcloak territory remained to be seen, but that was why Jeanne was here after all.

She followed the army closely, but not too close. She kept to the ever-autumn forests of the Rift to hide her from their gaze. It was unlikely they were going to notice her slow trots, but she wasn’t about to tempt fate by moving onto the road. Armies moved on the roads, don’t you know? That’s how they don’t get lost. How do ten thousand men get lost? Well, they’ve already lost two thousand in this province and they have no idea how.

Towards the nightfall, Jeanne saw them come upon a camp at the foot of the Jerall Mountains. It was massive, comfortably fitting in its nook in the rock side. This could easily be taken as staging grounds for an Imperial invasion, but they only just got the soldiers needed to take Falkreath Hold, let alone the boarder. They had months to plan and this was it? Jeanne wasn’t convinced.

When all of a sudden, another army emerged from the Legion camp. It couldn’t have been the same as the one, as she’d them take another path into the camp. Besides, no army would march all day, stop, and start marching at night. It had to be another army, but then there was the question of where they were going. Jeanne started trailing again.

They began marching west, through the mountain pass. It was clear they were going into Stormcloak territory now, but Jeanne wanted to be thorough and see exactly where they went. The greatest adversary to that was the confining nature of the mountainous terrain. It wouldn’t be easy to navigate a maze of razor-sharp rocks with only one safe passage that was being occupied. She knew Skyrim’s horses were oddly suited to the terrain, but she wasn’t, and not many creatures are well suited to falling.

Eventually, Jeanne conceded that riding on horseback wasn’t going to be opportune for this endeavor, so lead Prince Adrien to a pond to rest. She would return to rest alongside him, but she was busy at the moment. Hopefully, she would be able to scale the rocks well enough to keep out of sight.

There was little to say about Jeanne or the army as though pass through the mountains, but Jeanne’s design to replace her boots after this. When they came upon the other side, back into the forests, Jeanne bolted into them. She couldn’t maintain the same distances as with her stead, but she was going to try and stay out of sight.

Eventually, the army came upon a ruin larger than any fort Jeanne could say she’d seen. If she had to make a guess, this was the ruined town of Helgen. Before they even opened the gate, Jeanne could see men on the armaments in Legion uniforms. They had taken the desolated remains of this town to serve as a base of operations. Smart, though Jeanne wasn’t certain everyone you told that too would be happy, especially since it was in Falkreath Hold.

Jeanne repositioned herself to the north side of the town and began waiting to see if an army would emerge from any of the three sides. If they left through the north gate, they would be marching through the hold to Solitude, since they wouldn’t dare attack Whiterun in the night. If they left from the west gate, they would attempt to take Falkreath town, as they’d be easily noticed if they used those roads. If they left to the south, they would attempt to take the provincial boarder and open a path to Cyrodiil, since that was the only thing in that direction.

It was the north gate.

Jeanne was certain at this point that the Empire was moving the Legion through Stormcloak territory with no knowledge to Ulfric or any other leaders. This was exactly the situation she was sent to confirm. Galmar would want to know of this. The ceasefire would end, and war would come again. Jeanne was tempted to say nothing was there.

In fact, why did they need to know? Why did they need her to confirm this? Shouldn’t the sudden increase of Legionnaires in Haafinger or Hjalmarch be enough indication that something was wrong? Don’t they have all the information they need? No, no they didn’t. If this was the one thing that they need to know that the Legion was breaking the treaty, she was essential.

And besides, war would come. The boarders between Imperial and Stormcloak territory were so inopportune for both parties that they couldn’t help but wage war again. It was only a matter of time. And maybe it would be a little longer still if Jeanne kept her mouth shut.

Jeanne returned to Prince Adrien’s pond and unpacked her necessities. She knew that she wouldn’t be able to get enough sleep with what night was left, but she could still rest. She stuffed her face with jerky and passed out in her bedroll. She hoped that this wouldn’t be the most comfortable she’d be this month.

* * *

Amaund didn’t pick Volunruud to meet because it was a convenient place. Quite the opposite, actually. It was an ancient Nordic tomb in the mountains that separated the Pale from Whiterun hold. Beyond its remoteness, it was also full of draugr, making it unwise it venture into it. Only those with a strong sword arm could venture in. Fortunately, as a man of power, Amaund had one.

Rexus was his bodyguard, bound to the Motierre family since birth. He served loyally, as he was expected to, but Amaund didn’t really note it. He always expected Rexus to not put up with some of the thing he had to do. Descending into an undead-infested tomb was amongst that, but he heard the loyalty of serfs was strong. This served Amaund well.

If Rexus wasn’t the loyal lapdog he was (not literally; I must constantly clarify in this world of Beast Folk), he might openly question his master’s business. Amaund knew everyone silently judged everyone for something they did or didn’t do, being one of the courts, but it was a matter of expressing that. Personally, he hated Nords and Redguards for their Talos worship and disloyalty to the Empire, but never expressed that. They might be useful later.

Amongst the things a sane man would question was enacting the black sacrament. This was the traditional way to contact the Dark Brotherhood, and everyone knew that. He had a job for them, and the fact Rexus was willing to stand there and be silent was comforting. And the fact it was such a dangerous business made it so much better. If anyone knew about this, Amaund’s head would be cut from the throat and hung from the entrance to the Elder Council Chambers until his bones were ash.

At the third hour waiting there, they heard a particular noise. You could hear virtually every noise in Volunruud, it being as quiet as a crypt. It was the entrance opening. Rexus drew his two-handed sword, ready to slay any who walked through the door. It might’ve been an adventurer, might’ve been the ambassador of the Dark Brotherhood. Whatever it was, it could only be so many people.

The one who walked through the door was a stranger. A figure in shrouded armor, black and red. It had to be a Brotherhood assassin, for anything else was terrifying. What adventurer would dress as this for any reason? A dark sorcerer of the necromantic arts? A Daedric creature from the planes of Oblivion? Perhaps with history proved how unlikely that was, but it didn’t stop the mind from racing.

“By the almighty Divines,” Amaund gasped, “You've come. You've actually come. This dreadful Black Sacrament thing, it worked.”

The figure only nodded. They said nothing, just standing there. Amaund didn’t know if he expected a talkative assassin of the shadows or what, but it did feel strange.

“Right, then,” the politician continued, warily, “You prefer to listen, is that it? Well, you must represent the Dark Brotherhood. I certainly wasn't expecting anyone else. So I'll cut to the chase. I would like to arrange a contract. Several, actually. I daresay, the most important work your organization has had in, well, centuries.”

Amaund wouldn’t dare continue. By continuing, his treasonous thoughts would become treasonous words. Granted, it did speak with his allies about all of this, but this was the first outsider to learn of this. There was no guarantee there wasn’t some contract with the Brotherhood to kill any who spoke of these things in their sight. He’d heard of such things in the Morag Tong and the Brotherhood in centuries past. Did he dare speak further?

“Go on,” the assassin spoke in a nondescript voice.

“As I said,” he continued, his voice wavering, “I want you to kill several people. You'll find the targets, as well as their manners of elimination, quite varied. I'm sure someone of your disposition will probably even find it enjoyable. But you should know that these killings are but a means to an end. For they pave the way to the most important target. The real reason I'm speaking with a cutthroat in the bowels of this detestable crypt. For I seek the assassination of.”

And here it was. He could not avoid it any longer. From this point forward, he would be no normal client. He was a pariah, a conspirator, one who could be thrown from the height of the White-Gold Tower and children would dance on his remains with laughter on their tongues. Did he dare subject him to this fate? Well, he thought of the idea, so he probably should go through with it; his allies wouldn’t be kind if he didn’t.

“The Emperor.”

The dark figure grew still, but not silent. “You want us to kill,” they stuttered, “the Emperor? Of Tamriel?” From the voice alone, Amaund could hear a southern Hammerfell accented woman’s voice. Great, he was dealing with a Redguard, probably a Talos worshipper. If that didn’t make this business worse, he didn’t know what would.

“That is correct,” he confirmed, feeling as though he should defend himself, “What I ask is no small thing, of course. But you represent the Dark Brotherhood. This is what you do? No? You must understand. So much has led to this day. So much planning, and maneuvering. Now, it's as if the very stars have finally aligned.”

Amaund realized how much he said. “But I digress,” he collected himself and waved to his bodyguard, “Here, take these. They need to be delivered to your, um, superior. Rexus. The items.”

The items were a letter and an amulet. His amulet of the Elder Council. The letter had details as to how they should proceed. Amaund and his conspirators had planned this in detail for a long time and now was the time to strike. That would never calm his nerves though.

“The sealed letter will explain everything that needs to be done. The amulet is quite valuable,” he explained, “you can use it to pay for any and all expenses.”  
As soon as Rexus handed them over, the shrouded Redguard bolted out the room. Whatever reason she did that, Amaund couldn’t worry about it now. He had gone through a lot of trouble even crossing the border to Skyrim. Amongst the many things he had to worry about, that was likely his chief concern.  
Well, not his chief concern. He was still thinking about all the ways he would be executed and his remains desecrated for his crimes. He was always told to grow a spine; he was planning to kill the Emperor. That didn’t help. All he could do was worry about who the new emperor would be.


	9. Chapter 9

Rena awaited in the college yard. There weren’t many things to do here traditionally, but things changed this cold winter night. There were fair games abound, with tests of strength and a keen eye. There were hot foods with enough sugar and wheat that a king would happily call it desert. And there were bards with songs of joyous celebration that echoed across the way.

This party was due to Alary’s work. She went to Viarmo in the morning and saw an audience with Jarl Elisif in the afternoon. They somehow got around the damaged texts, likely by making something up. Whatever it was, it assured the Jarl that the Burning of King Olaf wasn’t meant to be an effigy of her late husband. Still though, it was surprising how fast the Bards’ College organized the event. Considering the burning was supposed to be in Hearthfire, not Evening’s Star, some of the unperishable thing were ready and awaiting this moment.

But less so was the effigy they were burning. For starters, Rena saw arrive at the college, not from the basement. For another, she was certain the bards, attempting to prove they weren’t burning anyone in recent memory, wouldn’t make the dummy a caricature of Ulfric Stormcloak. It was reasonable to assume King Olaf had yellow hair, so a beard and long locks of straw weren’t out of question, but a cloak of black ship wool made it a clear likeness. As someone who’d seen Ulfric herself, Rena was confident this was meant to be him.

This thought didn’t last for long, as Alary and Viarmo arrived in the yard. They didn’t talk to Rena before, nor had her and Alary hadn’t spoken since the morning. She didn’t know what they intended, but she could guess they would light the effigy. Their position next to the dummy made that evident.

“Welcome, people of Solitude!” Viarmo announced, “We of the Bards College are pleased to be here to celebrate the Burning of King Olaf. The festival would not have been possible without the dedication and hard work of our latest inductee.”

He gestured to Alary, who looked so scared. Rena knew she needed some confidence if she wanted anything out of life. Maybe being in public places wasn’t something she could get over, but there could be ways around it. It was a long shot, but a court bard could be of use. Maybe she could write songs for coin. She didn’t have to let her fright ruin her life.

“With the lighting of the effigy,” Viarmo continued, “she becomes a full-fledged member of the Bards College. Please welcome our newest Bard, Alary!”

A lit torch was passed from person to person until it found its way into Alary’s hand. Trembling, she approached the effigy and raised the fire to light the dummy. It took and Alary recoiled, watching the effigy burn. Despite her discomfort, the crowd was in rapturous applause at the display. But to Rena, this was in bad taste. She knew what this was, and it sadly meant the peace wouldn’t last.

Burning the leader of your rival or enemies in effigy is a sure way to antagonize them, and Rena could see that. Should this reach Windhelm, or even just Ulfric, it would inspire further antagonism between Imperial and Stormcloak supporters. She knew that it was petty, but it would prove them uneasy neighbors. It was stupid to fear reprisal and such rumors working their way across the province, but all it took was one traveler. Maybe she needed more spiced wine.

With the effigy aflame, Alary took a book from her pouch. With it opened, it looked as though she was prepared to recite the Edda. Rena was so afraid that she would hurt herself doing this. She hoped that this was Alary’s idea and Viarmo wasn’t forcing her to do this. She hoped for so much, she knew not all would be fulfilled, but she still hoped.

“O, Olaf, our subjugator, the one-eyed betrayer;”

“death-dealing demon and dragon-killing King.”

“Your legend is lies, lurid and false;”

“your cunning capture of Numinex, a con for the ages.”

“No shouting match between dragon and man, no fire or fury did this battle entail.”

“Olaf struck a deal to make himself king, Numinex let go though none tell that tale.”

“Olaf grabbed power, by promise and threat;”

“From Falkreath to Winterhold, they fell to their knees;”

“But Solitude stood strong, Skyrim's truest protectors.”

“Olaf's vengeance was instant, inspired and wicked.”

“Olaf gave orders, Winterhold disguises. An attack on Solitude total destruction to follow.”

“His men dressed up and then went out to fight, but they reversed Olaf's orders much to Winterhold's sorrow.”

“So ends the story of Olaf the liar, a thief and a scoundrel we of Solitude commit to the fire.”

“In Solitude bards train for their service, they also gather each year and burn a King who deserves it.”

Alary’s recital made Rena proud for the effort, but her applause didn’t join the same rapturous response as when she lit the effigy. Rena understood why; Alary’s lack of confidence was laid bare in her voice and she stuttered or mumbled through some lines. It was rough and clearly a novice’s effort. Still, Rena couldn’t help but be proud of the attempt.

With the recital over, Alary went directly to Rena and fell against the wall with a tired moan. Perhaps it was because her own status as a youngster wasn’t too far away, but she recognized that moan. It was a “Mom, I want to go home and do anything besides being at this party” moan. Rena thought it was a little rude to leave a party partially dedicated to you, but she wasn’t about to make Alary suffer further.

However, before they could leave, Viarmo approached them. “I think they like you,” he remarked.

Alary gracious nodded. “So, I'm a bard?”

Viarmo happily smiled. “Yes. Congratulations,” he replied, “you are now a full-fledged member of the Bards College. Due to your adventurous nature several of the college professors have some things they wish you to do. What's more, Elisif has declared the Burning of King Olaf should become a weekly event. And finally, there's the matter of the patronage that Elisif wanted me to give you.”

As Alary was given a fairly heavy coin purse, a lot of things raced through Rena’s mind. A weekly Burning of King Olaf, especially if they were all effigies of Ulfric, was more likely to get back to the Stormcloaks and antagonize them. What’s more, Alary wasn’t adventurous, at least to Rena’s understanding, and she had to journey with Rena, so she wouldn’t be as useful as Viarmo thought. There were things that Rena couldn’t comprehend but she knew one thing: the days to come wouldn’t be simple to meet.

* * *

Skathi was tasked by Garan Marethi to run what seemed more significant than it felt. She was given a chalice to fill with blood from a particular place and carefully return it to the castle. A seemingly mundane errand with some sort of significance she just wasn’t immersed enough in the clan’s culture to understand was the best guess Skathi had for what this was. Or maybe it wasn’t she wouldn’t know.

But before she could fulfill her task, there was something she felt obligated to do. For well over a month, she carried the Dwarven lexicon Septimus Signus gave her, but never returned. It was just her being busy, mostly, but the path to her quarry would take her through Winterhold, so she could just run by his outpost. Granted, it wasn’t something you just did, it being in an iceberg in the middle of the Sea of Ghosts, but it was more the principle of the thing.

Skathi traversed the harsh ice fields of the north, the feet easier this time than before. When you’ve done it already as a mortal, and now you’re a vampire, the danger decreases. Add to that the weather getting colder and the path wasn’t too bad.

Entering the outpost, Skathi found that Septimus hadn’t changed much. His beard was still unruly, his robes were still dirty, and his eyes still gave away there was surely skooma in his drawers.

However, he didn’t seem to note he had company. “I've inscribed the lexicon,” Skathi stated, which shook him into focus.

Septimus looked surprised by her return but was far more interested in the lexicon than her. "Give it, quickly,” he almost barked.

Skathi gave over the Dwarven artifact and he held it like a pauper with a diamond. He couldn’t believe the object of his desire was in his hands. He looked into the runes, presumably far more able to decipher them than Skathi could. The meaning he desired could probably be found in those foreign letters, but she couldn’t tell.

“Extraordinary,” Septimus muttered, “I see it now. The sealing structure interlocks in the tiniest fractals. Dwemer blood can loosen the hooks, but nonalive remain to bear it. A panoply of their brethren could gather to form a facsimile. A trick. Something they didn't anticipate, no, not even them.”

His little mind seemed shake its madness for a moment of clarity and he turned to face Skathi. “The blood of Altmer, Bosmer, Dunmer, Falmer, and Orsimer,” he explained, “The elves still living provide the key. Bear you hence this extractor. It will drink the fresh blood of elves. Come when its set is complete.”

The mad wizard handed over a strange mechanism. It was like a Dwemer artifact but mashed together from different pieces to make something specific. It had five cylinders, presumable for the five Elven races, and at the end of each was a needle. Despite this complexity, it was could easily fit in her palm.

“Why are you so eager to open the box?” Skathi asked, more out of politeness than genuine curiosity. Even though he may have lost his sense of time, he may actually need it.

Septimus looked as though he was asked to describe his favorite dish. “The box contains the heart,” he said with intense furvor. The essence of a god. I have devoted my life to the Elder Scrolls, but their knowledge is a passing awareness when compared to the encompassing mind of divinity. The Dwemer were the last to touch it. It was thought to have been destroyed by the Nerevarine, but my lord told me otherwise.”

Even Skathi knew what he meant. It was the Heart of Lorkhan, torn from the god that made the world and lost to the ages. But last she heard, the Nerevarine destroyed it to save Morrowind from a grave threat. Who would know where it lied?  
“Who is your lord?” Skathi asked.

“The Daedric prince of the unknown. Hermaeus Mora,” Septimus explained like any laborer talks about his kind employer. I thought there were no secrets left to know. Until I first spoke to him. He asks a price,” he twitched with fright, “to work his will. A few murders, some dissent spread, a plague or two. For the secrets I can endure. In time, he brought me here. To the box. But he won't reveal how to open it. Maddening.”

Ironically, Skathi never heard of this Hermaeus Mora, but he was surely one of the evil Daedra. No being of benevolence calls for death to earn his patronage. Being a vampire might make this deed easier, but not when she was sure that this would have far bloodier consequences that she was certain she could bare.

When she went to leave the outpost, her path was barred by a horror. It was nothing. There was no exit, nor any ice or light. The nothing seemed to grow and swallow all it could devour. It was like a portal to an endless void one could walk their entire lifetime until their immortal soul was snuffed out and there would still be nothing. What was this?

“Come closer,” it echoed, the words leaving the void like blood from an oozing wound, “Bask in my presence.”

“Who are you?” Skathi dared ask.

“I am Hermaeus Mora,” it announced with the pride and power of a lion, “I am the guardian of the unseen, and knower of the unknown. I have been watching you, mortal. Most impressive.”

Skathi had faced gods. She was tempted down Namira’s path and was preserved by Kynareth herself. This, however, was no god. This was endless death. There was nothing to mistake for humanity in this nothingness, no hint of anything other than unfeeling malevolence in that void.

“What do you want of me?” she asked.

“Your continuing aid to Septimus renders him increasingly obsolete,” the void coolly explained, “He has served me well, but his time is nearing its end. Once that infernal lockbox is opened, he will have exhausted his usefulness to me. When that time comes, you shall take his place as my emissary. What say you?”

No one simply snaps at a god. No one chooses to mince words with Divines or the Daedra. However, in this moment, Skathi summoned all her defiance to resist this god. It would ask of her to do evil things for no other sake than evil, or perhaps its benefit.

With fear still in her voice, she declared, “I'll never join you, vile demon!”

“Be warned,” the void said with no sign of anything more than annoyance, “Many have thought as you do. I have broken them all. You shall not evade me forever.”

And with that, the wretched abyss was gone. The darkness had faded, and the path was clear.

But Skathi still feared for her life, fidgeting around her left ring finger. The Daedra had the tendency force people into serving them. Subtle means, indirect, but still horrifying. If Namira, the Daedric Prince of all that was vile and disgusting in this world and the next, could force her to serve, Hermaeus Mora could find a way.

Jumping into the Sea of Ghosts was never more appealing.

* * *

Finding Sorine Jurand was far less daunting than Gunmar. Isran gave Agata the lead that she was in the Reach and that was a place to apply her method from the last person of interest found. Agata went to Old Hroldan Inn, where she would confirm someone of Sorine’s description was out in the Reach. Where specifically couldn’t be given, so that wasn’t ideal.

Agata wasn’t enthused to be back in the Reach. She rode hard to be as far from this hold as possible, so hard that she wore out a horse and stole another. The thought of moving closing to that house was a reminder that Molag Bal’s threat was real and would always be there so long as Skathi was a vampire. It may longer beyond that, but this was the most immediate reason Agata would kill her sister for.

But also, the poor Nord didn’t want to be in the Reach again because that meant she wouldn’t be using the roads to find her quarry. The Reach’s mountainous terrain was impassable on foot. Finding a path in amongst this maze of razor-sharp rocks was considered by something to be beyond the skill of mere mortals. That’s why Tiber Septim was worshipped as a god, don’t you know?

Agata would ride through cliffs and ridges to find Sorine. Every rock could end her life, one way or another, with giving way under Kili’s step or being there to catch her with jagged arms when she fell. Fortunate for both of them, Skyrim’s horses tend to be wonderous at climbing cliffs, so the danger was manageable, though ever present.

Soon enough, Agata spotted a woman in leather armor that had to be Sorine. As the Nord rode down the rocky terrain, she saw more of the Breton’s details. She seemed rather plain, as did most Breton women. If it turned out Agata had mistaken this woman for her person of interest, the poor Nord would be so ashamed.

“Just one gyro,” the Breton muttered to herself, “One, and I can get back to work. Where are they?”

Agata rode up to her. “Excuse me?” she inquired.

This seemed to shake the Breton from her focus and realize there was a Nord on horse not five feet from her. “Oh, Sorine Jurand,” she introduced herself, “You haven't seen a sack full of dwarven gyros lying around, have you? I'd swear I left it right here. Do you think mudcrabs might've taken it? I saw one the other day,” she trailed off and found herself again, “Wouldn't be surprised if it followed me here. Just look around, will you?”

“I’m Agata Wolf-Runner,” the Nord said as she dismounted, “Isran asked me to find you.”

“Isran? Wants me?” Sorine skeptically remarked, “No, you must be mistaken. He made it exceedingly clear the last time we spoke that he had no interest in my help. I find it hard to believe he's changed his mind. He said some very hurtful things to me before I left. Anyway, I'm quite happy in my current pursuits. So, if you'll excuse me,” she turned to leave, probably looking for that gyro she mentioned.

Agata was surprised the people Isran thought were best to join the Dawnguard were quick to brush him off. Perhaps, she mused, these were the ones he was friendly with.

“Vampires threaten all of Skyrim,” she explained, “We need your help.”

That caught Sorine’s interest. “Vampires? Really? Oh, and I suppose now he remembers that I proposed no less than three different scenarios that involved vampires overrunning the population,” she stated with matter a fact to the point of seeming sarcastic, “Well, what are they up to?”

“They have an Elder Scroll.”

That caught Sorine’s full attention. “I,” she stuttered, “Well, that's actually something I never would've anticipated. Interesting. I'm not sure what they would do with one, but in this case Isran is probably correct in thinking it isn't good.”

It was good Agata had gotten the Breton to at least consider this. She wasn’t about ready to go back to Isran empty handed. She was instead going to ask why everyone he knows doesn’t like him. Still, it was possible the answer would present itself if she just waited.

“All right,” Sorine said after a moment in thought, “If nothing else, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to learn more about what's going on so I can better defend myself. But I'm not just going to abandon what I've been working on here. It's too useful. I need at least one intact Dwarven gyro. So, either I need to find the satchel those mudcrabs stole, or I need another gyro from someplace. You wouldn't happen to have one, would you?”

“I don't have any gyros on me,” Agata stated.

“Well then I'm very sorry,” the Breton stated, “but I can't just walk away from this project yet.”

The poor Nord decided instead attempting to convince her otherwise, she would look for the Dwarven gyro herself. She could get any old gyro, but she didn’t know what they looked like, she wasn’t about to jump into a Dwemer ruin to find another one, and she wasn’t about to spend money on recruiting. So, she would just look for the Mudcrab.

Mudcrabs are rowdy little critters, but they taste amazing cooked in butter. Finding one was just a matter of finding water. She did come upon a stream with a satchel in the shadow of a barren tree. There was also a Mudcrab standing between her and the satchel. There was no danger in the Mudcrab, just annoyance.

Agata walked around the crustacean and picked up the satchel, finding a Dwarven looking artifact within. This provoked the Mudcrab, who snapped its claws in an attempt to intimidate. Agata paid it no mind, even finding it a little cute, but then it started striking at her legs. At that point, she wasn’t amused and ran off, cursing all the way.

When she returned to Sorine, Agata handed over the satchel, saying, “Here, I've got a dwarven gyro. Take it,” humorless from the Mudcrab’s reign of terror.

“Thank you!” the Breton remarked, seeming grateful, “It's not much, but this will help a great deal with some things I've been researching. Now where is it Isran expects me to go?”

“We're meeting at Fort Dawnguard,” the poor Nord informed.

“Ah. Been working more on his secret hideout, has he?” Sorine japed, “It'll be interesting to see how much progress he's made. I'll finished up here and head in that direction as soon as I can. See you there.”

Agata mounted up and left for Fort Dawnguard. Her task was over, and she could relax a little. She did wonder if there were others Isran thought were good for the Dawnguard but weren’t interesting in being around him. It didn’t seem like he was a people pleaser, far from it. Hopefully, the reason he pushes people away doesn’t hurt the very guild he hopes to revive.

* * *

Upon returning to Riften, Jeanne had less of an issue with the gate guards. There was an obvious shift change that meant different people who probably assumed she’d already paid, since she declared she was returning. Good thing, since she was way too tired for dealing with under-sleeping and travel to argue anything.

She was about ready for a glass of wine and a plateful of hot food, but there was another matter she had to deal with: the bounty. Her reason for leaving the city in the first place was tracking down a wanted man and cutting his head off. She may want to turn in that bounty so no one else could claim it. It also willed his worldly possession to her, as was tradition in Skyrim.

Jeanne went to Mistveil Keep, the where the Jarl always did business. Within was a great banquet table around a fire pit, but few sat at the table. And one who didn’t sit there was an impeccably dressed woman of older years with dark hair and a foxlike face (that is to say, a face reminiscent of a fox; Beast Folk make such parallels likelier than otherwise) sat upon a throne. This had to be Jarl Maven Black-Briar.

“I presume you're bothering me for a good reason?” Maven asked in a snide voice.

Jeanne was taken aback from this ignoble attitude. “Apologies,” she fanned, “but I believe I have business with your steward.” It was the steward that traditional handled mercenary matters.

“If you have business with him,” she retorted, “you have business with me.”

She seemed to overbear in this regard. Traditionally, the Jarl’s steward is at arm’s length at all times. The well-dressed man with the muskrat-like face (again, not literally) would most likely be that steward. Yet, he never said a word, just look on with barely hid boredom and contempt.

“I’m here to turn in a bounty,” Jeanne explained, “One Gollmdall Hairy-Scourge.” That was the name on the bounty letter.

“Well,” the steward finally spoke, “that seems about right.”

As he moved to a table to the side, Jarl Maven raised her hand. “I want to see proof,” she demanded.

Jeanne could roll her eyes if she so desired but found that improper. She decided the best way to handle this was to comply with her request. Out from her leather bag, she pulled the severed and rotting head of Gollmdall Hairy-Scourge. True to his name, he was a hair bastard, which proved to have an eclectic collection of bugs.

The steward looked to be ready to gag, but not so for Jarl Maven. “Was that so hard?” she asked, “Hemming, the coin and the waver.”

Still disgusted, Hemming went back to that table and opened a lockbox atop it. From it, he grabbed paper and a bag of coins from the sounds of it. With quill and ink, he began writing this and that, but both he and Jeanne suddenly had a thought that brought slight embarrassment at this oversight.

“What is your name?”

“Jeanne Hawksly.”

Hemming nodded and wrote on the paper. He handed it and the gold over to Jeanne with an awkwardness one would presume would be bereft of him after the past few months of doing this. The paper was the waver to Gollmdall’s property, such as it was, and the gold weighed about right for the bounty listed. Jeanne curtsied and left the keep.

Something struck Jeanne as wrong about those two. Hemming was young enough to be Maven’s son, he looked about right for one, and the way she treated him like an overbearing parent would. Still, something was wrong, like the way she watched him doing his work. Jeanne couldn’t figure out what exactly it was, but there was something.

After selling things off at the Pawned Prawn, Jeanne sought out Mjoll, as she felt she was the one person to be honest about them with no fear of reprisal. She looked around the market square and found the warrior woman patrolling the road like one of the guards. Upon seeing her again, Jeanne wondered if this was just an excuse to see her again.

“Hi there, stranger!” Mjoll greeted.

“It’s Jeanne,” the Breton clarified, picking at her sleeve, “I wanted to ask you about the Black-Briars.”

Mjoll’s grin faded into tired bitterness and Jeanne felt guilt for it.

“Maven Black-Briar, the matriarch of the family, represents everything that's wrong with this city,” Mjoll explained, “She's bribed countless officials, has friends back in the Imperial city and freely associates with the Thieves’ Guild. I've tried everything I can to protect Riften's citizens from her family, but to no avail.”

Jeanne had heard that reputation well enough, but that wasn’t what she was interested in. “Who else is in the family?”

“Well, there's Ingun Black-Briar, Maven's daughter,” Mjoll continued, “Strange girl. She likes to spend her time down in Elgrim's Elixirs working on her alchemy. Then you have Hemming, Maven's son. Spoiled brat and heir to her empire. He follows her word like a loyal dog follows its master. And finally, Sibbi; the worst of all of them. He's in Riften Jail for murder.”

And Jeanne thought her treatment of Hemming was weird. “Who’d he kill?” she asked.

“His fiancé’s brother,” the warrior woman explained with the forbid calm of a child, “No clue where she is now, but not in Riften, that’s for sure.”

Jeanne wasn’t unfamiliar with these types of stories. In the courts of High Rock, this is what they call a Heart’s Day Wedding. It supposed that any marriage on Heart’s Day, the day of Sanguine’s summoning, was ever performed, a thread of infidelity would fill the bride or groom and it would lead to murder. People thought with Martin Septim’s work that the curse would be over, but that proved to be untrue.

Still, when murder’s committed in High Rock, the murder’s overlord must pass judgement. No dungeon for any who kill Bretons was ever built by any, but the gods and the key was the headsman’s axe. Sibbi’s imprisonment rubbed Jeanne the wrong way as a result, but the reason she sought out Mjoll still lingered.

“Any rumors around Hemming?” she asked.

As a guard passed Mjoll, she stated, “None I would repeat in her cronies presence.”

Must be quite serious then, Jeanne figured. He was the son of a woman that it was common knowledge she associated with a criminal organization; anything worse than that was impossible to say. Considering Maven did nothing to get her only other son out of jail, a son spoiled so rotten he was a murdered, who knows what it might be?

“Thanks,” Jeanne nodded. She wished she had a better reason to talk to Mjoll. And she had a drink.

* * *

Now, Delvin had seen a lot of things in his life. As a member of the Thieves’ Guild and other things, he saw parts of the world that would make you weak in the stomach. Overtime however, he developed an iron gut and lost his gag reflex. Not that much made him disgusted. Perhaps it was living in a sewer for so long, but it wasn’t his place to say if that was true.

Take his brother, Glover. Glover was a far better thief than him and a far better lover. He stole many trinket and heart in his prime, but something happened. He took one look at a new recruit and couldn’t be in the cistern anymore. Delvin didn’t know why, but Glover said she looked like a pig farmer’s wife he once bed and stole from. Delvin wasn’t sure what made him so upset; knowing him, he probably had more bastards than there were members of the guild.

Said recruit was Sapphire, according to her. And she was from the Dark Brotherhood. Delvin knew the Dark Brotherhood well and helped Brynjolf poche her for their own needs. It was easy since he used to be part of it. He left when it was clear Astrid was putting her own desires above their Dark Brotherhood’s core tenants. You’d think it would clear, since the first was “Fuck with the Night Mother, you fuck with Sithis.” Well, not literally, but that’s how Delvin understood it.

Of course, he kept up good relations with the Brotherhood. He wasn’t an idiot, even if they were clearly breaking rule number one. If he pissed them off, he was going to get stabbed and left for dead. No one wants to die in a sewer, so he maintained the Five Tenets of the Brotherhood. He did as they asked, even if it was stupid. Even he didn’t want to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.

Sithis was a god before the time of Aedra and Daedra if dogma was to be believe. He was a force for chaos, far his trickster successor Lorkhan who would create the world with his actions. When life came into being, Sithis desired to kill it. He wanted to wreak havoc in their affairs, curse them and destroy them. His power was beyond that of the Daedra, but how he would plot to kill the mortal world, no one knew. Why did he allow this world to exist so long with nothing close to the Oblivion Crisis by his hand?

But those thoughts could be forgotten by a stiff drink. Nothing like that Black-Briar swill, even if Brynjolf said it promoted loyalty to their client. Delvin spent a good deal of time in the Ragged Flagon, allowing himself to speak with thieves and clients without going into the cistern. It was mostly because that was where the smell was worst, so he avoided it like the plague. It probably did cause the plague, come to think of it.

In was in this place that he saw someone approaching him. A familiar face, though a few things were new about it. An old man in mage’s robes, one that was something of a mentor to him. Well, not in skills, rather in the art of sneaking in and killing people. Delvin applied these to his thieving career.

“Ah, now you must be lost,” the thief remarked, “Best ya scurry off while you're able. The Ratway, well, it has a habit of swallowin' up the uninvited.”

Festus frowned. “Now, is that any way to treat an old man?” he retorted.

There was a moment of silence. Then a hearty laugh shared between them that echoed through the Ratway. “How are you doing, old man?” Delvin asked, chuckling.

Festus soon came down from his cheer. “The Dark Brotherhood requires your services,” he whisper, sitting down opposite his former student.

Delvin wasn’t that surprised, but he act like he was. “Oh. Oh I see,” he remarked, “Well now, how is Astrid doin' these days? Tell her to stop by some time. We can have a drink. Catch up. Ah, but we can discuss that later, yeah? What does the Brotherhood need?”

He was mostly being friendly, being amiable. He thought Astrid was a pariah, but he didn’t need an extended conversation about that with mixed company. Especially with the crotchety old man who would likely agree. No one needed to know anything about this. Secrecy was part of the Five Tenets.

“What can you tell me about this?” Festus asked.

He handed over a diamond shaped amulet. It was gold with a magenta jewel in the center of the diamond. There were runes and other designs that made it clear that if this was a fake, it wasn’t a shite forgery. That being said, there was no way this wasn’t genuine; the resources required to make one of these were expensive, and anyone who could do it probably did own one.

“Where oh where did you get this?” Delvin muttered before realizing that information would likely kill him, “Don't answer, I don't want to know. This is an amulet of the Emperor's Elder Council. Specially crafted for each member. Worth a small fortune. Ain't somethin' you'd give up lightly. Look, it ain't my business ta tell the Dark Brotherhood its business, but if you killed a member of the Elder Council, you'd better belie-"

“Will you buy it?” Festus asked, clearly undeterred by the dangers.

Delvin sighed. An old man like Festus would likely be retired or dead by now. He was old when Delvin was young. He’d seen old men work until their deaths, and he knew Festus would likely be killed by his work. It was the profession of assassination; death is the industry. But still, if there was one person that he actually gave a shit about, it was Festus. He didn’t want to see the old man meet a bad end.

“Buy it? This?” he questioned, “An Elder Council amulet? Oh yes. Oh yes, indeed. Wait just one moment.”

Delvin reached into his person a grabbed a piece of paper of quill. He wrote out a letter of credit. In the fields of larceny and wet work they work in, the less there could be a paper trail, the better. But still, he didn’t carry that kind of money on his person. If Astrid were to deposit this in any bank in one of the five major cities, it would be worth fifteen-thousand Septims.

“Here,” he stated, handed it over to Festus, “The letter of credit. Usable, by Astrid only, for any service or item I can provide. As per our standard arrangement. You bring that back to your lovely mistress. With my regards.”

As Festus rose from his seat, he remarked, “You don’t need to be so kind to her. She has more than she deserves in this world.”

“I know,” Delvin remarked, “My mother just taught me to be nice to women.” A lie. The things his mother taught him about women would probably throw him in jail. It was his brother that taught him such things.

Delvin missed his brother. And his missed Festus. Delvin reckoned he missed people because there weren’t that many people that cared about him anymore. It was enough to take another drink.


	10. Chapter 10

It was strange. Jeanne had been without drink since two nights ago. She didn’t pack wine for the journal, nor was she the type of drunk to drink in the morning. Right about now, she would be hankering a glass of wine. Well, she did order a glass with her salmon, but when she would usually drink her Surlie Brothers’, she didn’t.

Jeanne wasn’t sure why this was. She’d been drunk most any other day; why would today be any different? Was her decision in regard to the whole Helgen situation? One sober decision leading to a desire for more sobriety. Perhaps once she gets out of the worst of withdrawal, she’ll figure out whether or not it was a good idea in the first place.

Or maybe it was the temple. Some need deep inside to be sober for Lady Mara. She’d been raised to respect the gods of the Breton pantheon, save Sheor who was a mere caricature of the Nord’s Shor, and she came to respect the Goddess of Love the most. Maybe it was out of her old romanticism that brought her to Mara, a desire for a life of love and comfort and a big happy family. All she knew was that the Mother-Goddess still had power over her.

Jeanne paid for her meal, even the wine, and exited The Bee and The Barb. She was going to the temple of Mara but stopped as she entered the courtyard, suddenly overcome with anxiety.

She couldn’t possibly enter this place. Her past devotion had given way to fear that she couldn’t hold her head high in this place. Her drinking was less than two days young; was that enough to enter the temple? Would Mara be kind to her?

What was she thinking? Mara is always kind to her children, and all of the world was her children so long as they recognized her.

Jeanne, to the best of her nerve, entered the temple. It was different from the temples she’d been in, all three of them. They were white marble, while this was oak. The place was small, but perhaps in made sense in a town with such little love. She could only see a handful of priests, not the tens that were in her homeland’s clergies. Things truly were different in Skyrim.

The three Jeanne could see were at least distinct. There was the Redguard man who gave her such anxiety about her drinking in the bar. Another was a Nord man of little distinct description. The last was a Dunmer woman who stood at altar, somberly working on something. Jeanne decided the last seemed the most responsible, even she looked the least to enjoy being there.

The devotee approached the priestess. “Excuse me, are you in charge here?” she asked.

The priestess looked up from her work. “There’s no head priest of the temple,” she explained, “We are all equally devoted to the Goddess Mara, who gave mortals the gift of love that they might have a hint of eternity.”

“You can spare the sermon for later,” Jeanne interrupted, “I’m very well acquainted with our Lady Mara.”

A pleasant smile came upon the priestess’s face. “There aren’t many worshippers of our Lady in Riften,” she remarked, “Tell me, why do come here? I believe I’ve seen you around town.”

Jeanne shrank in shame. “I haven’t worshipped our Lady in months, most of which I spent as a drunk,” she grimly admitted, “I wish to receive her blessing and maintain my recent sobriety.”

The priestess nodded. “Not all can hear the broad echoes of deepest dawn,” she said with the warmth of autumn colors, “You may worship her at the temple, as many do, but to receive the touch of Mara, you must first act as her hands in the world.”

In honesty, Jeanne could easily just go to temple like others would, but she wanted to prove herself. For months, she traveled the province, killing for Ulfric or gold. If she were to travel again, she would at least sleep at night knowing her deeds were for Lady Mara, not herself. She could do this.

“Explore the facets of the infinite jewel,” the priestess continued, “Are you prepare, then, to help bring the light across the land?”

“For Lady Mara,” Jeanne vowed, “I’d do anything.”

The priestess’s expression became much more somber, as though reminded of grief. “The dawn surely opens upon you, child,” she remarked, “You must bare it’s light that all might see, but do not burn them.”

Jeanne knew religion attracted more than its fair share of fanatics. Half the Stormcloaks had to be Talos-worshipers with no kindred spirit with others. Madmen took the word of gods as an excuse for their own sins. This priestess surely didn’t want that, especially when the word of the Mother-Goddess. Jeanne wouldn’t disappoint her.

“Mara has reflected an image to me,” the priestess said a little warmer, seeing Jeanne’s expression change, “At the foot of the throat and the young woman, almost a girl, her fickle love must resolve itself. The village of Ivarstead. The woman, Fastred. This is the prayer heard by the goddess and relayed to her servants. Return when she has seen her path. I will entreat Mara on your behalf.”

Jeanne nodded and left the temple, but not before putting coin in the donation box. Such a small congregation needed every coin it got. She didn’t have much, but every coin was her to use as she saw fit, and this was well fit.  
The Redguard priest, Maramal was she thought his name, saw this. “Thank you!” he beamed, “I can promise you that this will be put to good use.”

That made Jeanne leave faster. She wasn’t about to let anyone think she was a good person until Mara’s work was done. She shirked the idea otherwise. It wasn’t that being a Mara worshiper that gave glory to her every day that was her measure of goodness; it was not being such a failure to the Stormcloaks and to your god. Maybe it was just her warped mentality, maybe not. It was just how she thought.

Seeing as the night would soon arrive, Jeanne chose to set out in the morning, rather than the alternative. There was someone else that she wanted join on these adventures with: Mjoll. Someone just as capable as her, maybe more so, would make this journey far more bearable. Jeanne looked around and found her in The Bee and The Barb.

“I’m going to Ivarstead in the morning,” she asked, “I’d like you to come with me.”

Mjoll’s usual demeanor wasn’t broken. “Jeanne,” she replied, “I’m far from an adventurer nowadays. I’ve too much to do in Riften to do journey even that far. If you need an extra hand, go to Marcurio; he’s a mage for hire that would probably enjoy the work.”

Jeanne nodded and left. In her room, she was just sad. She didn’t cry, but she didn’t feel good. She wanted to spend more time with Mjoll but had no clue how. Jeanne was a traveler, Mjoll wasn’t. Jeanne couldn’t always stay in the same place, Mjoll had to stay in Riften. There wasn’t anything in Riften for Jeanne, but Mjoll. What could she do?

* * *

Ravani hadn’t intended to return to Solitude. She was a known Legionnaire when she stayed here, so traveling somewhere where you have a profile like that is akin to going into a small town with a banner reading “Look at me!” Nevertheless, this is where she needed to be, and Mercer insisted she go there. Not to say anything but sending the one new thief to do all the work wreaked of incompetence to said thief; it was nailing down who was the idiot.

It was a paper trail that led her here. Part of getting Sabjorn in jail was to put a puppet in charge of Honningbrew Meadery and get at the paperwork. As it turned out, there was a connection between them and Goldenglow Estate. Both had mysterious backers and were set up in competition with Maven Black-Briar’s assets. Another connection was an odd symbol written on both of their paperwork, specifically on papers where there should be a signature from the backer.

Mercer believed it was a deliberate effort to sabotage the Thieves’ Guild by attacking their patron. Ravani thought that was paranoia but didn’t say much. Instead, she was tasked with finding Gajul-Lei. As it turned out, that was a common alias for Gulum-Ei, the guild’s contact in the East Empire Company in Solitutde. It was Ravani’s task to confront him.

Despite his betrayal, Brynjolf insisted on keeping him alive. It was a valuable asset to the guild and would be a waste to simply kill him. With the guild having declined as far as it has, Ravani agreed. Someone had to help this rabble of idiots that need the new thief to do all their work.

Ravani found that the Winking Skeever was the best place to find someone. It was the only inn in Solitude, as the owner was proud of saying. As such, it didn’t take much poking around to find someone who knew him. She found him sat in a corner, looking as normal as an Argonian could be.

“So, what do we have here?” Gulum-Ei remarked, his head motioning in a way to imply he was sniffing, “Hmm. Let me guess. By your scent, I'd say you were from the Guild. But that can't be true because I told Mercer I wouldn't deal with them anymore.”

Ravani cursed the fact their headquarters was in a sewer. She’d traveled two days and a night to reach here and she still stunk to an Argonian. “I'm here about Goldenglow Estate.”

Gulum-Ei’s face portrayed a lack of care, as much as the lizard-like person could with the face he was given. “I don't deal in land or property,” he stated with a lack of enthusiasm, “Now, if you're looking for goods, you've come to the right person.”

It may be difficult to tell the expression of an Argonian when compared to Man or Mer. The only part of their face that expressed similarly was the eyes, but those can be difficult to read for many people. No, you looked at their nostrils if you want to see how they give themselves away. The wider, the more open they were, and Gulum-Ei’s were as tight as they could be without choking himself.

“You can drop the act now,” Ravani whispered, leaning into her target, “Gajul-Lei.”

The shock on the Argonian’s expression was obvious. “Oh, wait,” he stuttered as much as one could notice, “did you say Goldenglow Estate? My apologies. I'm sorry to say I know truly little about that,” he paused looking for the right word, “bee farm, was it?”

“You acted as a broker for its new owner,” Ravani recounted, sitting opposite to her target.

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn't,” Gulum-Ei retorted, never losing his seeming calm exterior without actually being calm as far as Ravani knew, “I can't be expected to remember every deal I handle.”

Ravani knew it was stupid, but still asked, “What would it take to identify the buyer?” There could be a lot of things he’d asked for and she may accommodate that if they were her only choices. She knew enough to know shady people had shady desires.

“Well, now that you mention it,” Gulum-Ei smirked, even if that word didn’t exactly describe his expression, “there is something I've been trying to get my hands on. I have a buyer looking for a case of Firebrand Wine. There just so happens to be a single case in the Blue Palace. Bring it to me, and we'll talk about Goldenglow Estate.”

Ravani breathed a sigh of relief and left to nab the wine. There probably a hundred horrible things that he could’ve asked for, and Ravani couldn’t fulfill some of the things she thought of. She was thankful he was business oriented, not Dunmer oriented, if that made sense.

Still, it wouldn’t be an easy feat to steal something from the Blue Palace. Guards trained alongside the Legion walked the halls. There were no easy entrances beyond walking right in. Few if anyone ever entered looking as she did, in traveler’s garb. However, Ravani wasn’t one to let herself fail from the onset.

Most of the traveling paraphernalia was left in her rented room. Instead, she approached the Blue Palace looking like one of the common folks. When the guards at the entrance saw her, they didn’t pay her much mind. This was because she walked with purpose and comfort, a ruse to make them think she belonged there. One’s mannerisms lie better than their words.

Once inside, Ravani began looking for the wine. Said wine was likely to be in the basement, but she was going to check the kitchen first. She found the kitchen by following the scent that made her hungry, of baked breads and savory stew. Right in the hallway outside was a crate of wine bottle with the words “Firebrand Wine” right on it. She grabbed it and started walking away.

The way back to the Winking Skeever was perfectly fine. No one paid much attention to the person that looked like she belonged there, especially once she stated heading towards the local inn. This was a contrast to Windhelm, where a Dunmer couldn’t walk a step into the Stone Quarter without a guard stopping them.

When Ravani went back to Gulum-Ei’s corner, he looked pleased, but guarded. “Ah, I see you have the wine,” he remarked, “Hand it over and we'll talk.”

“I have the Firebrand Wine,” Ravani said in a normal voice. Something for the gawkers so they wouldn’t think anything of it.

Gulum-Ei looked like he was unamused by the redundancy. “Good,” he repeated with said lack of energy, “Can't have the buyer getting impatient and looking elsewhere for this, can we? Here, take this.” He put jingling bag on the table, and continued, “I certainly can't use it, but I suppose I need to pay you something for the goods.”

Ravani sat down, setting the wine aside to check the bag. It definitely had gold Septims in it. “You're trying to bribe me now?” she remarked.

“Not at all,” the Argonian said with calm, “I consider it an investment in prolonging my life. As far as Goldenglow Estate goes, I'll tell you what I know.”

He continued, “I was approached by a woman who wanted me to act as the broker for something big. She flashed a bag of gold in my face and said all I had to do was pay Aringoth for the estate. I brought him the coin and walked away with her copy of the deed.”

“Did she say why she was doing this?” Ravani asked. People in illegal business rarely do.

“Not at all,” Gulum-Ei replied, “I tend not to ask too many questions when I'm on the job. I'm sure you understand. However, I did notice she was quite angry, and it was being directed at Mercer Frey.”

Perhaps the guild master’s paranoia was justified. Still, that left little to identify her. Ravani didn’t know if this woman was Man, Mer or even Beastfolk. “That's it? No name or anything?” she questioned.

“In this business we rarely deal in names,” Gulum-Ei stated, surely reminding Ravani what she already knew, “our identity comes from how much coin we carry.”

It sounded like he was hiding things for some actual payment, not a favor. “I think you're lying to me.”

The Argonian was most unamused. “Look,” he almost barked, “that's all I know. I never promised you I'd have all the answers. Now, since our transaction is done, I'll be on my way.”

And with that, Gulum-Ei left with the wine under arm. Ravani knew she wouldn’t get anything from him like this. If she wanted what he knew, she’d need to change tactics, and she already had an idea how.

* * *

Skathi had a headache that felt like there was an arrow through her head, even checking to if see that was true. She wasn’t sure why this came about, nor why she was awakening when she didn’t remember when she went to sleep. She especially didn’t know how she ending up in a prison cell.

In her head, such as it was, she recounted the events leading up to this. Garen Marethi of the court of Clan Volkihar gave her something called the Bloodstone Chalice to fill it from the Spring of Redwater Den. She gave her coin to a traveling merchant on his way to Riften to grant her passage that to the Rift, offering her services as a nighttime guard, but not to disturb her during the day. It worked and she arrived soon enough.

Redwater Den turned out to be under a burnt down cabin, one that still had guards. Under the cabin, she found more people, one offering her skooma. Not just any skooma; Redwater Skooma. She was definitely right to think this was the place, but she was unsure if anything here was supposed to be here.

Now, Skathi wasn’t one for skooma. She tried it once direct from the Khajiit caravans as they passed into Skyrim but didn’t experience anything special. She figured she just had some natural resistance to moon sugar, and that the amount of skooma necessary to affect her would kill her. That being said, Skathi still downed the dose of skooma she was given. She figured that was the key to getting anything down.

And then she woke up in this cell with a headache that felt like Alduin. Perhaps Skathi should’ve just gone in with brandished blades.

“That's the last of them,” she heard from outside the cell, “Poor sods can't resist after they get a taste of your dosed Skooma.”

The voice was that of the dealer who sold her the special skooma. With her was a vampire in Clan Volkihar regalia, but his clothes were worn. It was likely he went against the clan and there wouldn’t be any repercussions for killing him.

“The water from the spring makes the skooma so much more potent,” the vampire remarked, “we'll have all the thralls we'll ever need. Good thing the boss heard that old farmer running his mouth off in the tavern about finding this place.”

So, they were using Redwater Springs to make skooma. Something about that didn’t seem right. Granted, she was sure the spring had numerous magical qualities that affected the way skooma worked, but it didn’t seem wise.

What equally wasn’t wise was getting on Skathi’s nerves. She was a hunter that kept in practice for over a decade. and she was Dragonborn during a time when you needed to kill a dragon to make it to the chamber pot. And she had the form of Vampire Lord. If you were going to threaten her life, you would need to top that, and she couldn’t think off many that could.

Rising from the ground, Skathi let out the Vampire Lord. She roared and caught the attention of her captors. As they drew their weapons, Skathi tore the door from its hinges and threw it aside. The vampire stupidly tried to slice her with an axe and torn apart by lightning. The dealer was wiser and kept running until she was out of sight.

So, this was the power of the Vampire Lord.

Much of what would follow was a blur. She fought through many vampires and their thralls. She threw them like dolls across the ancient catacombs they dwelled in. Eternal beings from times before maybe even the time Tiber Septim were torn apart by a younger one of greater power they could never wield.

Eventually, Skathi came upon a strange chamber. It was humid like a hot spring, but there wasn’t any water. Taking up most of the room was a pool of blood. On closer inspection, it wasn’t blood, but red water. If Skathi was as sharp as lumber, she would still say she found Redwater Spring.

Skathi tamed the Vampire Lord again and reverted to her Nord form. She took the Chalice from her satchel, making note that she had no clue where it went when she changed forms, and dipped it into the water. The water felt like dulled lightning on her hands, stinging and crackling on her skin, like pin and needles if her hands were still awake.

She raised the Chalice out and found it full. She had no clue how to transport it far, let alone to the other side of the province. Out of desperate hope, she decided to test something and tipped the chalice over the spring. The chalice was on its side, but the water didn’t fall out. So, the water would just spill out everywhere if she put the chalice in her satchel. Skathi wasn’t about to test when it would empty.

As Skathi left the spring, two vampires, a man, and a woman, entered. They, like many of the vampires here, were dressed in Clan Volkihar regalia, but unlike the vampires of this den, their clothes were pristine. These vampires weren’t ones she could just kill. However, that’s when they drew blades on her.

“It's really too bad, you know,” the female vampire remarked, “The little accident you had here, completely unexpected.”

“Yeah, too bad,” the man added, “Lord Harkon's new favorite, dead so soon after joining the family.”

“We're just lucky I was here to return the Chalice to Vingalmo,” the woman said with condescending pride, “so he could make sure Harkon gets it back.”

So, that was the game. She didn’t recognize the name, but she could guess that was a member of the Volkihar court, one that saw an opportunity to advance his position. However, even out of Vampire Lord form, Skathi wasn’t one to be taken out by two random vampires of such little note that she didn’t even know their names.

“Wait, what?” the man questioned, “That's not what we agreed. We take it back together.”

The woman turned to her companion, exacerbated. “Idiot,” she snapped, “You didn't really think I'd let you walk out of here either, did you? Vingalmo wants you both dead.”

“Well that's just fine,” the man spit, “Orthjolf told me to finish off anyone who got in the way.”

Ah, court politics killing each other; Skathi was well acquainted with this storybook. The two vampires turned their blades on each other and had a fight. Skathi just waited for one of them to die, which happened; the woman stuck a dagger in the man’s gut and took him off guard, letting her cut his head off. That let Skathi impale the woman with the opportunity.

After a few more dead bodies, Skathi was out of the den. She didn’t know how to get back to Castle Volkihar. Well, she did know; just start walking. What she meant was that the caravan was a stroke of luck. She didn’t know how she would make back without bearing the pain of the sun.

It was funny. She used to think of the sun as softer than a hot spring, but still as warm. Now, it burned her skin. Thank Kynareth this was only temporary.

* * *

Gulum-Ei left Solitude, unaware Ravani was tailing him. He worked in the East Empire Warehouse on the docks. Ravani, garbed in her Thieves’ Guild armor, followed him just out of sight. It was likely he was headed to work, but she wanted to make sure of that. Of all she knew, Gulum-Ei was headed for a bandit den with a hundred swords protecting him. No one leaves those they don’t trust to their own devices.

Sure enough, he went to the warehouse. Ravani pegged her chances in there better than most times. From what she could tell, Vittoria Vici’s wedding was tomorrow, so any security intended for her would be as absent as she was from the site. There didn’t seem to be anything exciting going on at the docks, so guards would likely get lazy. It was a perfect opportunity, so she snuck through the from door.

Once in, Ravani had to resist the urge to steal everything. She could hardly carry all of it, but the goods sold by the East Empire Company were worth her weight in gold. Perhaps she should wait until after the job was done before she swiped anything, and perhaps she would. For now, she’d grabbed this or that trinket if it would fit in her pockets, and the guild gave her many a pocket on her armor.

Gulum-Ei was never out of sight. Ravani stayed in the shadows, climbing over the shelves to avoid the warehouse guards’ gaze. This had pushed her stealth abilities to a point she wasn’t sure how she was doing this. And she still found time to grab knickknacks! At least she could sell these to a fence.

Eventually, Gulum-Ei found himself in a dead end. Ravani found this may be an opportune time to corner him, so stood on a ledge over him. She was ready to pounce when he trigger some mechanism and open the rock face to reveal a passageway. He entered, leaving Ravani stood like a gargoyle, mouth agape as well.

Whatever secrets laid in that passageway, Ravani knew they’d be worth something. Why would someone have a secret place in a guarded warehouse if not for something truly special? If the East Empire Company, or Gulum-Ei at least, didn’t want anyone else to know what was in there, she wanted in. And so, she bolted into it before the rock face could close.

Through the cave, she found there were mercenary sorts. She’d lost track of Gulum-Ei, but as there was a stream going through the passage. As Argonians couldn’t drown, and were natural swimmers, it was likely Ravani wasn’t as good at stealth as she thought, and he wanted to get ahead of her. There went that ego trip, but at least there was only one way. Sadly, it was through mercenaries. Sad for them; Ravani brought her bow and blades.

Many a mercenary was slain by arrow and blade that night. Ravani started with striking one from affair, as many couldn’t take an arrow and live, then seeing how many strikes she could get away with until they spotted her. When they began closing the gap between them, she drew her sword and slashed them. She hadn’t gotten that many opportunities to refine her own individually fighting style, but practice made perfect. Or you die, but a lot of things have tried to kill Ravani and failed, so she wasn’t afraid.

By the end of it, Ravani found Gulum-Ei again. He was sat in a pile of goods, whether they be trinket or essentials. The idea he’d been hoarding these things behind his employers’ back was pretty hard to mistake, and likely none of it was meant for the guild. He was sitting pretty, while her comrades sat in shit. She was so jealous.

Forgoing stealth, Ravani walked into Gulum-Ei’s corner, earning the attention of the mercenaries around him. They tried to approach her, but she was fast. While they swung their heavy axes and hammers, they’d find daggers in their ribs and a sword to their throats. Rats like them could never compare to the tricky cat she was.

Gulum-Ei, appearing to finally be afraid, coward before his attacker. "Now, there's no need to do anything rash,” he whimpered, “This isn't as bad as it seems. I was going to tell Mercer about everything, honestly! Please, he'll have me killed!”

Ravani couldn’t help but chuckle. Her ancestors would just kill him here if they were in her opportunity, an Argonian at their mercy. They sacked Morrowind when it was at its weakest, showing no mercy even to children. They stole the Dunmers’ birthright. Funny thing was, Ravani Faren’s only birthright was her name. She never gave a shit about who her ancestors’ were; she gave every shit about survivor until the next day. This didn’t influence her decision; she just thought it was funny.

“Mercer doesn't have to know,” she assured.

Gulum-Ei look up in confusion. “I see you wish to be reasonable,” he remarked, “perhaps I misjudged you. The name of the person you want is Karliah.”

A name like that was worthless if faceless. “You say that name like I should know it,” Ravani stated.

Gulum-Ei’s confusion intensified. “Mercer never told you about her?” he inquired, “Karliah is the thief responsible for murdering the previous Guild Master, Gallus. Now she's after Mercer.”

You’d think Ravani would’ve that Karliah, but she supposed her pears didn’t think it was necessary. “And you're helping her?” she questioned, fidgeting with her knife. It didn’t matter to her, but she thought it’d be funny to scare him.

“Help? No, no!” the Argonian panicked, “Look I didn't even know it was her until after she contacted me. Please, you have to believe me!”

Gulum-Ei’s nostrils were open. He was being honest, and there would be no point trying to squeeze blood from this stone. “Where is Karliah now?” she asked.

“I don't know,” Gulum-Ei admitted, still afraid, “When I asked her where she was going, she just muttered ‘Where the end began.’ Here, take the Goldenglow Estate Deed as proof. And when you speak to Mercer, tell him I'm worth more to him alive.”

The Argonian gave Ravani a piece of paper the way a peasant gives their money to a bandit. It was an official document for certain. There was no doubt in her mind that this was her mind this was the deed. It didn’t name Karliah, but the fact he had it was incriminating in his involvement. She have to find some way to spin this to Mercer.

Ravani followed the path to an exit to the cave system, moving past horkers on the way. As she discovered, it exited to the western coast. With the option to walk the western coast to civilization, or just going back the way she came, she chose the former. At least she knew where she was going.

* * *

It was a lovely day for a wedding. The sky was unseasonably clear, and the birds were giving their melody so that others may listen. The temple of the Divines was dressed in flowers native to the mountainous terrain, but nevertheless beautiful. The only thing dressed more beautifully was the bride, but that was to be expected on her and her new husband’s day.

Rena had been invited to the wedding of Asgeir Snow-Shod and Vittoria Vici, and graciously accepted. There was the family of groom and bride and the nobility of Solitude invited to such an event, but she hadn’t known either of them well, so it came as a surprise. Rena couldn’t think of any reason she was invited but was too humbled to ask. She was just enjoying the moment.

Alary was invited to join her, but not forced, so she didn’t come along. In the past few days, she had been attending classes and working hard, but ended up in her own little world when she did so. Rena didn’t know where she went but wasn’t one to just wake her out of it. Alary needed this time to study.

Of course, at these sorts of events, it was expected to socialize, and there were many to socialize with. The groom, the bride, his family, her family, their friends, random people just here for the food and drink. Of course, there was one in might be inappropriate not to talk to first.

“Jarl Elisif,” Rena greeted.

The widowed Jarl nodded and gestured to the bride and groom. “A marriage of both love and political advantage,” she remarked, “A rare thing indeed.”

Such a remarked made Rena wonder if her own marriage was one such. “Having a good time?” she asked.

“So far,” Jarl Elisif replied, “I just hope things remain calm. Wine gets drunk, tempers flare. This may be a joyous celebration, but it's shadowed by a lot of animosity.”

It was true enough. Rena knew Vulwulf, the father of the groom, was one it would seem to fit this description, if her own ears were to be trusted. On the other hand, he was never violent while drunk, though wildly xenophobic. She decided he was to be the next person she was to meet with while socializing.

While she approached, the old man spotted her and remarked, “They say this marriage is the first step towards peace. Who in Shor's name wants peace? Pfft.” His voice was seasoned with liquor.  
“Having a good time?” Rena asked, even though she already knew the answer.

“No, I'm not having a good time,” he spat, “My boy just married a gods-forsaken Imperial. Skyrim is full of eager Nord women, and he beds down with the enemy.” Had he been slightly less drunk, would he notice that she was, herself, an Imperial?

No matter, Rena had spotted an opportunity to meet with the bride and groom. It felt inappropriate to talk to the happy couple last. The groom was dressed finely in red, white, and blue while the bride was in red and white only, with golden decorations across and flower crowns on their head. They looked the picture of a happy couple to Rena, though she wasn’t exactly one to know what that was.

“Well aren't you a pretty thing?” Asgeir chuckled, “Should my new bride be worried?”

Rena saw the mock jealous in the bride’s expression and was assured this was a joke. “Congratulations,” she gave, “Quite the day, hmm?”

“The best,” he beamed, “Vittoria's a good woman. Any man should be so lucky. I know my father's not happy about me marrying an Imperial, but that's his problem.”

It was good to see such happiness in a groom, but what about the bride? “And you?” she asked the Vittoria.

She was already beaming with her new husband. “What an amazing day this has been,” she remarked, “I hope you're enjoying the festivities. I'm just so overwhelmed. Such kindness, for me.”

Such a lovely, but strange remark. She was right to be overwhelmed by all the celebration of a wedding, especially if you’re the one getting married, but it felt worse than that. It felt like she wasn’t used to being happy or celebrated. She was a daughter of a wealthy family and cousin to the Emperor himself; how had she not known such glorious celebration?

“Well, I wish you happiness in your wealth, your love and your children,” Rena said in a blessing her mother taught her, “in the days, months and years to come.”

The couple gratefully nodded, and Rena left, this time itching to ask the mother of the bride what gives. Before she could even spot her, she ran into a Redguard woman that seemed in a world of her own. Rena turned to meet her, but she disappeared into the crowd. You’d think a barely well-dressed Redguard whose age was evident would be easy to find, but no.

“My nephew, the Emperor,” Alexia Vici, the mother of the bride, muttered, “Too busy to attend the wedding of his beloved cousin. We won't stand for this slight, I assure you.”

“Having a good time?” Rena asked. With that personality, it was no surprise Vittoria turned out the way she did.

“I most certainly am not,” the bitter hag spat, “I've just lost my daughter to a Nord beast, and my nephew Titus is too busy playing Emperor to even show up.”

Before Rena could go off on this woman, the couple was making a speech, as was customary for all across Tamriel to Rena’s knowledge.

“Honored guests,” Vittoria declared, Asgeir’s hand in hers, “I just wanted to take this time to thank you all for being here. To thank you for sharing this wonderfully happy day with myself, and my new husband. I thank you all again for making this the best wedding a woman could ask for.”

And then, to everyone’s shock, that was the last words she’d ever speak. An arrow flew across the sky and struck the bride in the chest, leaving her limp. She fell into her husband’s arms and his shock was immediate. Everyone had an expression of shock on them.

But Rena wasn’t still. She drew her sword and traced where the archer would be while the guests were panicking. The guards were all distracted with something, but Rena knew that arrow came from the temple of the Divines, right in the doorway. She ran through and spotted a shrouded individual making their escape into the catacombs.

Before Rena could follow, she felt a dagger scrapping into her back. She threw herself around before she could be fully stabbed and was face to face with a shrouded Argonian. They tried to stab Rena again, but her sword was too quick to even let them leave uncut. With the sight of blood leaking out the armor, Rena tried to pushed the assault when the assassin disappeared entirely. Illusion magic at its most annoying.

As the assassin left with no trace, Rena knew it was for naught. Vittoria Vici was dead, her assassin had surely escaped with the time. While the guards ran into the catacombs, Rena looked to the shrines and silently prayed that Arkay would guide her to Aetherius.


	11. Chapter 11

Dorelia didn’t see this coming. The Penitus Oculatus was assigned to prevent assassination due to Skyrim’s recent history, that couldn’t be debated. However, they prepared for madmen with blades or a Stormcloak guerilla force, not an assassin. It was an oversight on their part and Dorelia cursed themselves for not seeing it coming. I mean, that was their duty entirely, not the shame they brought to the uniform.

At least they had something to go on. As Vittoria’s body fell to the ground, another assassin revealed themselves. An Argonian that, just as quickly as they appeared, bolted once the assassin proper left. However, this one was caught wearing shrouded armor of black and red. Dorelia, just as much as anyone in Cyrodiil, identified that as the uniform of the Dark Brotherhood. The Brotherhood still lives.

With that in mind, Dorelia called in help. In Dragonbridge was a comrade of theirs, Commander Maro. They knew he was here on Imperial interests to wipe out the last remnants of the Brotherhood at any cost. Dorelia believed it a waste of their budget, but with the day’s events, that idea was given Imperial punishment, as much as they hated that phrase.

Dorelia waited in Castle Dour’s war room for Maro’s arrival. They had taken a break from interviewing witnesses to meet with him. As much as they appreciated the assistance on this matter, the inspector wouldn’t appreciate being reamed out. They were just as much upset about this situation as he would be about this, likely more. Their duty was failed and there was no chance to simply make this up; no need to make them feel worse.

After a punctual five minutes of waiting, Maro entered the war room with three Penitus Oculatus agents at his side. Dorelia noted two were considered an acceptable escort for higher ranking officers, but not three. The third was most likely the commander’s son, Gaius, who was distinctly not at all similar to him in appearance. Maro had a pale, hard face while his son had a dark, soft face. Dorelia decided not to say anything about Gaius; it wasn’t their place.

“Commander Maro,” the inspector greeted, “I have already begun my investigation.”

Not a sign of impress was found on his face. “Dorelia, if I had my way,” Maro remarked, “you wouldn’t be in the Oculatus. We have no room for incompetents.”

At first, Dorelia thought he was going to say something completely different. They were almost glad it wasn’t that, but still not pleased. Dorelia’s competence wasn’t something they felt needed to be proved. Granted, the two assassins getting in and out when a party guest was more useful than the Oculatus was, but that was by no means- You know what? Yeah, by that point, they really did seem more like the Knights of the Thorn than the Blades of old. Who are the Knights of the Thorn? A bunch of idiots with arms and armor that were likely to kill themselves than protect the Imperial Province.

“I’ve only taken a moment to meet with you, but I do have some leads,” the inspector explained, “For starters, it’s likely a Dark Brotherhood operation.”

“Yes, I know,” Maro remarked, “If it was anything besides that, I wouldn’t be here.”

Dorelia knew Maro was cold and that he was tasked with eliminating the Brotherhood, but this was different. The thought he wouldn’t care if Vittoria Vici were killed by anyone other than the Brotherhood was pure callousness. Even if she was merely the Emperor’s cousin, she was still their duty. Well, not his, and maybe that was the clinching argument; it was their problem, not his until it became his.

“Neither assassin was caught,” Maro remarked, “That means they could still be in Haafinger, or surrounding holds.”

“Yes, I’ve considered that,” Dorelia noted, “I sent a messenger to Legate Duilis to keep an eye on any travelers to Hjaalmarch.”

“I will send a cavalry company to the Reach,” Maro stated, “and have my own men search the civilized cities and towns in our ability, starting with Solitude.”

Dorelia believed this was excessive, and foolhardy. If an Imperial cavalry company were within the Reach, the Stormcloaks would likely know of it and raise a stink about it. That might become a diplomatic incident and could very well reignite the civil war. Even with the regiments here, they couldn’t sustain an open war.

“Sir, if we send troops to Stormcloak territory, it will upset the Jarl and may lead to conflict,” Dorelia stated, “I don’t believe- “

It doesn’t matter what you believe or don’t,” Maro stated, “we must wipe out the Dark Brotherhood, no matter where they are. I would send General Tullius’s entire legion to Windhelm if that’s where they were.”

This single-minded attitude surprised Dorelia. “Sir, we’re here to protect the Emperor’s interests, not fight his war,” they stated, “If you wanted to be a general, why didn’t you join the Legion?”

Maro sighed. “Do you understand how important our assignment in Skyrim is?” he questioned, “I am here because the Emperor wanted to attend his cousin’s wedding but was late. He was in High Rock, securing our Empire’s future. He still intends to visit Skyrim, but only to assure the law abiding Nords that we aren’t weak. Do you wish to prove them right?”

Dorelia hadn’t considered any of that. Mostly because they didn’t know it. The Emperor was coming here? Was he suicidal? His cousin, who had lived in Solitude for years, had been recently assassinated at her wedding. You would have to be mad to visit here if you were the leader of the civilized world.

But that was it. Vittoria had lived here for years but was only assassinated recently. And the Stormcloak rebellion was months ago, with naught but a cease fire keeping them behind their boarders. And even if it was the Stormcloaks, Ulfric was too much of glory hound to even consider wet work. And even if it were an upstart warmonger amongst his ranks, he’d likely cut their head off and send it to Jarl Elisif as a present, him being that barbaric.

No, this was something different. This wasn’t about the civil war. Even if this was just the business of the East Empire Company, the only significant development was the Blood Horkers’ defeat around a week ago. It was a significant development, as they were utterly wiped out from their island fortress. It was unlikely that survivors would exist, let alone go unnoticed.

No, this had to get to the Emperor. Even if it was early to say anything, Dorelia had to consider the very real possibility that it was the Emperor’s life at stake. It may be paranoid, but as a member of the Penitus Oculatus, they had to be that paranoid. If they weren’t that’s when the bodies start dropping.

“Sir,” Dorelia asked, “have you considered this is what the Brotherhood wants?”

Maro’s expression was unchanged. “Inspector, that’s what we’re counting on.”

* * *

Rena had finished explaining the wedding from her perspective to the court. They asked every guest to give their version of events in the presence of the Jarl, the court and Tribune Dorelia. Assassination puts everyone on edge, especially those who qualify as targets. There wasn’t much to learn from this event, but every little bit helps, and they were desperate to learn something.

“Thank you, Captain Donton,” Jarl Elisif nodded, “When this investigation is over, you can return to normal duties.”

That was the thing that really hurt Rena. Her life was the Legion and she couldn’t live without it. If she were ever discharged, she wouldn’t know what to do. All she knew was that she’d never resign; it was her duty to fight for her Emperor. It gave her purpose, and she couldn’t live with being a meaningless fighter.

“Are you satisfied, Tribune?” the Jarl asked Dorelia.

The Tribune shook their head. “The Penitus Oculatus will not be satisfied until the assassin has been executed,” they declared, “It isn’t safe for anyone while they roam.”

Jarl Elisif quietly conceded, but she wasn’t the fire of the court. That was Falk Firebeard, an appropriately named man with ginger hair and whiskers you could hide your fist in. It was rumor that he was the true voice of the Blue Palace. As the steward, he did all day to day work on the authority of the young, inexperienced Elisif the Fair. It put little confidence in Rena that they would leave this Skyrim better than they found it.

“And when will you find the assassin?” Falk questioned, “It was your duty to protect Lady Vittoria and you failed. What are you going to do about it?”

Tribune Dorelia gave a glare of powerful rage to the steward. “We’re doing our investigation,” they shot back, “but it’s been less than a day and we haven’t finished questioning the witnesses. Know your place, steward.”

“As though we’re assured of your competence,” Falk balked, “You hardly have our faith.”

“I will coordinate with Governor Tullius to find the assassin,” Dorelia growled, “If you have faith in Tullius, you will have faith in me.”

Rena heard rumors that Falk was a puppet of Tullius. Publicly, he supported the General and his role as the military governor, even if many citizens were uncomfortable with the current highest authority in Skyrim was a General of the Legion. This let many an imagination run wild and many put words in his mouth, but many felt it was beyond reasonable to assume he’d say it. The way Falk slinked back in his corner, it wasn’t unreasonable to assume it was true.

“Now that you trust me,” Tribune Dorelia stated, “We shall continue with our investigations.”

At this point, Rena could dismiss herself, but she didn’t have anything she could do after this. She couldn’t patrol or plan or drill her soldiers until the assassin was found. She needed something to do.

And just then, man ran into court with a crazed look on his face. Rena Drew her sword to meet him, but he recoiled from her and threw himself onto his knees to the court. Rena took this as her que to leave.

Rena approached Dorelia, who was also leaving. “How long will this investigation take?” she asked.

Dorelia took a moment to respond. “We will see,” they replied.

Rena wasn’t satisfied with that reply. “I’m a captain of the Imperial Legion,” she stated, “What am I supposed to do?”  
Dorelia gave not a sympathetic smile. “Consider yourself on leave,” they explained, “Read a book. Do something weird. Don’t do anything that would alert the Penitus Oculatus to criminal activity.”

Rena was less than satisfied with that. She could read, yes, but she was far from the bookish type. Being on leave for the foreseeable future drove her mad. What could she do if not work? She figured the madman in the court might have something of interest, so tuned back into that conversation.

“I swear to you,” the madman begged, “unnatural magics are coming from that cave! There are strange noises and lights! We need someone to investigate!”

“Then we will immediately send out the Legion to scour the cave and secure the town,” Jarl Elisif declared, “Haafingar's people will always be safe under my rule.”

Rena was less than thrilled with that statement. The Legion had just been replenished its ranks in Skyrim and was only around to repel the Stormcloaks if given the opportunity. They weren’t here to deal with local problems; that was the hold guards’ responsibility. Or the responsibility of random adventurer or sellsword with a death wish.

“Thank you, my Jarl,” the madman stuttered, “Thank you.”

“Your eminence,” Sybille interjected, “my scrying has suggested nothing in the area. Dragon Bridge is under imperial control. This is likely superstitious nonsense.”

“Perhaps a more,” Falk suggested, “tempered reaction might be called for?”

It was then Rena saw that Elisif was recognizing her inexperience and addressing it. “Oh. Yes, of course you are right,” she shrank, “Falk, tell Captain Aldis I said to assign a few extra soldiers to Dragon Bridge.”

The madness left the man and begrudging acceptance set in. “Thank you, Jarl Elisif,” he replied, “But about the cave- “

“I will have someone take care of the cave as well Varnius,” Falk interrupted to assure, “you can rest easy. You're dismissed.”

Rena saw her opportunity. There was something she could do now that didn’t require her to be in the Legion. Hopefully, Tribune Dorelia wouldn’t consider this breaking the investigation rules, but she was going to do this anyway. At least it was something to do.

She approached the steward in his corner. “Do you have business with the court?” he asked, his bitterness evident from the heavens.

“I hear you're looking for some help with Wolfskull Cave,” Rena stated.

Falk’s bitterness fell into confusion. “You mean the Dragon Bridge issue?” he questioned, “I'll be honest with you, I was planning to let that go. Varnius is a bit jumpy at the best of times.”

The lack of care in Falk’s character disappointed Rena but didn’t surprise her. Stewards were a cowardly creation where lords didn’t want to do all the work, so they created a position where they were forced to also shrug off the work. No responsibility, it seemed, could be found in this court.

“There have been reports of weird happenings near Wolfskull Cave,” Falk continued, “Travelers disappearing, odd lights. I suspect wild animals or perhaps bandits. I don't think it's worth our time with the war going on, but if you want to clear out the cave, I'll make sure you're repaid for your work.”

Rena nodded. She would do the work. Anything to get out of here.

Though one question she worried the answer to still lingered. “Why is it called Wolfskull Cave?”

“The cave has a bad history,” Falk explained quite casually, “Long ago, Potema the Wolf Queen used it for necromantic rituals. That's where it got the name. That was over 500 years ago. Nothing much down there now, but everyone's always convinced the cave is haunted.”

That is what frightened Rena. If there were three things, if there were two things, if there was one thing Rena’s mother drilled into her head, it was not to underestimate necromancers. Whatever was in the cave, it was bad. Really, really, really bad.

* * *

Jeanne rode to Ivarstead in the morning and arrived in the early afternoon. There wasn’t any challenge in arriving there, seeing as home the Legion’s often patrols dealt with many a threat. No wolf or bear or worse was in her path. She thought it was good, since there was much to do in Ivarstead, and she didn’t need beasts to stall things.

Upon arriving, Jeanne could see the village’s beginning and end. She had heard this place was once a sacred place where pilgrim passed through on the way to the top of High Hrothgar. Clearly, things had changed, as many didn’t make the pilgrimage anymore. Jeanne personally wondered if the decline of the Greybeards had anything to do with how different Skyrim was from its reputation. A reputation Ulfric was trying to return.

“Are you the one sent by Mara?” a woman’s voice asked.

Jeanne looked to her side and found a young woman in a straw-colored dress. Considering the question, the Breton was confident that this Fastred, was her quarry.

“Yes,” Jeanne answered as she dismounted, “What’s troubling you?”

“My parents are being impossible,” Fastred sighed, “Bassianus wants to marry me. And I think I love him. But he wants me to move to Riften afterwards, and my father won’t allow it. He only cares about this stupid town, but Bassianus makes be happier than anyone has. My mother’s not any help, either.”

Interesting that this man, with such an Imperial name, would want to move to Riften after they would marry. Automatically, Jeanne assumed he was an Imperial soldier from the camp not far from here or a village guard assigned for security. Fastred was going to be one of those wives to boy that believed they needed to marry before they died and went for the closest pretty face. Her mother’s brother was one of these boys, and he annulled the marriage after the “financial difficulties” with having that wife.

Still, Jeanne wanted to be fair. “I’ll talk to your parents about it,” she assured.

Fastred brightened up at those words. “Oh, thank you so much!” she beamed, “It’s wonderful to have someone around who understands.”

Jeanne left to go look for a woman who was close to the age the young lover’s mother would be. Considering what context was given, she was likely to be the more reasonable to the two. Or maybe it was that her father’s opinion hurt more, or it was his decision that determined the rest of the family’s stance. Jeanne didn’t have much to go on, but she’d find more.

Soon enough, she found a woman with white hair, but little creases in her skin to denote age. The older woman was working the small fields at the edge of town. If Jeanne had to make a guess, she’d say this was Fastred’s mother.

The older woman looked up and noticed the Breton before her. After looking her over, the woman said, “You must be another pilgrim on the way up to High Hrothgar. No other reason to pass through here.” That was fair, as Jeanne was a traveler, looked like it, and probably didn’t look identical anyone in town.

“You’re Fastred’s mother?” Jeanne asked.

The older woman nodded incredulously. “Yes, I’m Boti,” she replied.

“Your daughter asked me to speak to you,” Jeanne explained.

“Oh my,” the older woman sighed, “Probably something about the men. We all wish we had her problems. Now, don't tell my husband, but I don't have any problem with Bassianus. Even if it means her leaving Ivarstead, I want Fastred to be happy. If they just snuck out of town together, I could manage my husband.”

An interesting stance, Jeanne noted. Boti was perfectly fine with this relationship, but her husband wasn’t. Why wasn’t he? Overprotectiveness? Jeanne wasn’t familiar with how it was to have an overprotective father, seeing as her own father was the sort to let you make a mistake so that you’d never make it again. She wasn’t sure that was an ideal parenting method, but reputation around overprotective parents wasn’t good.

“What would inspire them to leave?” Jeanne inquired.

Boti gave a face like that was fun question. “Bassianus is still so terrified of Jofthor,” she answered, “If he knew that I'd keep him from hunting the poor boy down, he'd take Fastred to Riften without a second thought. Let him know that I'll look out for them. I just want my daughter to be happy.”

It was good to know running was an option, but perhaps it didn’t have to be one. Jeanne still didn’t know a thing about Bassianus, nor had she met Fastred’s father, Jofthor. Perhaps after meeting both, she’d have a firm opinion. Already, she wasn’t sure, since this could all be the foolishness of their ages, for all she knew.

Still in the farmyard was a man of close to the same age as Boti, but it wasn’t so easy to tell. His muscles were as lean as pork loins, even if his hair was as white as winter. Speaking of which, where was the snow in this place? They’d be celebrating the New Life Festival in Wayrest about this time of year, but not an ounce of snow in here of all places? The Rift truly was forever autumn.

The man barely looked up from his work to talk. “My daughter is driving me crazy,” he remarked, “so, forgive me if I’m a bit on edge.” Yes, this was likely Jofthor.

“Your daughter actually asked me to talk to you,” Jeanne replied.

The man stopped in his tracks to look up. “I’m sure I know what this is about,” he sighed, “She thinks she’s in love with Bassianus and wants to leave town. With him.”

That emphasis was interesting to Jeanne.

He continued. “Let me tell you how I see it. Until a few months ago, the girl was head over heels for Klimmek. Wouldn’t stop talking about him.”

The young can be dumb about love. At least, that’s what her elders told her.

“Now,” Jofthor continued, “if I thought she was really in love with Bassianus, that would be one thing. But she’s a child. It will pass.”

This did seem like there was little to support the relationship, even if she didn’t know that much about it. But this wasn’t her offering her opinion; Mara Herself sent her to answer Fastred’s prayers. Was Mara sending her to break this couple up or keep them together? Was it Jeanne misunderstanding or was the Mother-Goddess wrong?

Jeanne needed to know more. “Why do you want her to stay so badly?” she inquired.

“Look around here. There’s not much left,” Jofthor remarked, “Used to be a good-sized town, but folks have been moving to Riften for a while now. If all the young people leave, what happens to Ivarstead?”

It sounded to Jeanne like a big issue. She wasn’t so certain it was within her scope to answer it. All she was here for was Fastred and her problems. It was just identifying what was the problem.

“You think she’ll get over it?” Jeanne asked.

“You know how children are,” Jofthar snarked, “Her fancies change with the moons. And like always, the boy lacks any kind of spine. He’ll need some convincing. A little push and this would all be simpler.”

Jeanne didn’t like that attitude. Fastred was young, but no child; she was a woman. Even the Breton knew what a Nord adult looked like. She was getting the idea that Mara wouldn’t support such a bitter man, but who knew?

The question was what was best for Fastred. To Jeanne, Bassianus was just a name, not a person. The same with Klimmek. The former was likely to move to Riften with the girl, the latter would keep her here. Which place was better for her, the corrupt city, or the dying village? Jeanne would stay in Ivarstead if she were certain it would be here in the next ten years, but what about Fastred?

And what’s more, place isn’t everything. Who was the better person, better lover, between Bassianus and Klimmek? She couldn’t say, she hadn’t met either. Would meeting them help the argument? Probably, but the question of who to pick would still linger. They were likely alright men and no better than the other. And choosing her lover was beyond Jeanne’s right.

Jeanne approached Fastred, who still worked in the field. She looked as though she was anticipating news, whether good or bad. Too bad there wasn’t much to talk about.

“So, have you talk to my father?” Fastred asked.

Jeanne sighed. “I have, and I’ve talked to your mother,” she stated, “Your father would rather you stay here, your mother wants you to be happy. She’ll cover for you and Bassianus if you decide to run off.”

A spark of light could be fun in the girl’s eyes. “That’s great!” she beamed, “I’ll tell Bass right now!”

Before she could leave, Jeanne put a hand on your shoulder, stopping her. “But I also know about Klimmek, your former lover.”

With that, Fastred’s spark was waning. It was as though the mention of it brought something back, whether the words of her father or something Jeanne could only further speculate. Without any words, Jeanne knew Klimmek was a sensitive topic for the girl, but not why. Fortunately, there were more things to talk about than him.

“I don’t care who your lover is,” Jeanne assured, “I know you’d chose who you want. I just want you to choose wisely, with maturity. You’re a young woman, with your life ahead of you. Don’t make a choice you’ll regret in five, ten, twenty years’ time. Be wise today, happy tomorrow.”

Fastred slowly nodded and still left the field. Jeanne hoped she would do wisely. She knew what it was like to make a mistake that she would regret. Her reliance on the drink made it clear the Stormcloak Rebellion didn’t do her right, even if she did right by them. If she could steer Fastred toward a better life than hers, she could die happy. Well, she wasn’t willing to just roll over and die today or tomorrow, but any bandit or beast wouldn’t kill someone who would beg for death or die with regrets.

* * *

Rena wasn’t experienced with the specific histories of Skyrim, though she had heard of the Wolf Queen. Potema Septim was the most vicious, malicious, and evil ruler of Solitude there ever was. Whole volumes detailed her life and what she’d done to Tamriel. She vied for the Empire’s Ruby Throne with lies, violence and necromancy until her death centuries ago. The madwoman is remembered as a person of unambiguous monstrosity, one of the few even scholars will not debate.

So, it terrified Rena the idea that the Wolf Queen might return. If the civil war were to resume, they didn’t need the temptation or threat of such a powerful figure returning. Even those who would parrot her name for power or fear would be disruptive, and the Legion and Haafinger didn’t need something to draw their focus.

And just to make it easier, she brought Ansgar. He was going a little stir crazy with responsibilities left and right that weren’t befitting a warrior. Granted, showing his techniques to others were preferable, but Rena could see he was dying for some action. Together, they might have a more successful adventure than the war stories.

Wolfskull Cave’s entrance proved little more than a crevasse in the wall. Little did to dissuade the idea that this was just another hole in the ground. Rena saw past that lie, pushing her way through and finding herself in a proper cave. One would think one called the Wolf Queen would more ornately decorate her liars, but she wasn’t above deception, and necromancers traditionally don’t want to advertise their practices.

As the captain descended into the cave, they found a draugr on its patrol. At this time in Rena’s life, it wasn’t the matter of slaying the undead that was difficult; it was justifying why it was here. She wasn’t certain where Potema remained, but if her cadaver was here, that didn’t explain the draugr. They were creatures of ancient tombs, not something near five centuries ago. Five centuries is a long time, but not necessarily ancient.

But of course, the draugr noticed the captains in their heavy steel armor. It drew its blade to meet them, as did they, and Rena raised her shield. The undead swung it’s blade to chop her, but the shield got in its way and Ansgar smashed the cadaverous warrior. Ah, back to the glorious teamwork between them that got them far in the Reach.

Deeper and deeper into the cave they went until the captains came upon a sight that would surely drive a farmer mad. Atop ruins of an ancient subterranean castle was a bright but cold bulb of light encompassed around a person. Ribbons of that same energy streamed across the ruins and met atop this tower. All around were worshippers and undead observing this event.

Rena wasn’t an expert of magic. She didn’t know what this was specifically. What she did know was that the magics were colored purple, the color of conjuration magics, such as necromancy. If these conjurers were using Potema as some sort of patron or using her former residence as a place of power, there was danger in what they did. Rena wouldn’t have it.

As the captains circled the ruins, it occurred to Rena that there was no chance of earning glory for the Legion here. Neither were there under the capacity of Legionnaire; Rena couldn’t with the investigation going through, and Ansgar volunteered as a friend. She was here as a servant of Jarl Elisif, of Solitude, of Haafinger. If any glory were earned this day, it would be their own. Such an idea wasn’t something Rena was used to.

This thought was interrupted by the necromancers’ chanting.

“Wolf Queen,” the voice of an old woman led, “Hear our call and awaken. We summon Potema!”

“We summon Potema!” the whole coven repeated.

“Long have you slept the dreamless sleep of death, Potema,” the leader continued, “No longer. Hear us Wolf Queen! We Summon You! Summoned with words. Bounds by blood.”

“We summon Potema!” the coven repeated.

The Wolf Queen had those attempting to return her to life? Rena knew there was danger in what they were doing, but necromancy on this level was impossible. Unheard of. The souls of the dead belonged to the gods, whether to the Divine to protect, or a Daedric Prince they surrendered to willingly. Few mortals could ever repeal the power of the gods.

And a new, aethereal voice joined the chorus. “Yes! Yes! Return me to this realm!”

Suddenly, Rena’s faith that the gods’ power overrule these mortals was gone. Clearly, whatever patron of necromancy these conjurers subscribed to was willing to return one of their souls for some price. If the soul of Wolf Queen Potema returned to the mortal world, there would be much chaos in trying to contain it. This may yet bring destruction if Rena couldn’t stop it now.

“As our voices summon you the blood of the innocent binds you Wolf Queen!” the leader announced,

“Summoned with words,” the coven chanted, “Bounds by blood.”

“What! What are you doing?!” the voice gasped, “You fools! You cannot bind me to your wills!”

“Summoned with words,” the coven continued, “Bounds by blood.”

“You ants don't have the power to bind me!” Potema screamed.

This was a surprise. Rena assumed these were some follower of Potema’s power and their obedience would be rewarded. These were power hungry opportunists that believed they could wield such an ancient and vile soul like a sorcerer’s staff. They might be able to, they might be throwing away their lives with reckless abandon. Either way, Rena was certain her and Ansgar needed to interrupt the ritual before it could release Potema’s spirit onto the world. They might not have come in time, but that wouldn’t stop them from trying.

“You head up the ruins,” Ansgar ordered, “I’ll distract the rest of them.”

A decent tactic maybe, but Rena wasn’t too enthused about it. “Those are draugr and necromancers,” she stated, “you’ll be killed.”

Ansgar smirked. “I’ve cut through the Stormcloak lines, bought the brunt of the Forsworn traitors, and slew Haldyn of the Blood Horkers,” he remarked, “While I may die today, I’ll take my chances.”

From his perch, he charged into the largest opening of the ruins, where many a draugr followed him. They, seasoned warriors in life, were no match for Ansgar in death. His Zweihander smashed through bone and chaulky flesh while Rena bolted into the more into the ruins. She appreciated his sacrifice, whether it was one or not. May he find his way to Valhalla or wherever Nord warriors go when they die.

The first to face Rena’s blade were draugr on patrol. She bashed them into the torches and minced them with her blade. The necromancers took note of this activity and began rising skeletons to fight her. The skeletons were easy to slay, bizarrely easy. She found the necromancers were harder foes, partially due to their magics. Still, they were all easy with a shield strapped her to arm and a sword in hand.

Rena climbed the ruins until she reached its height. She found the necromancer commanding the magics was an old woman, inspiring the idea that this was her life’s work in Rena’s mind. None of that mattered; everything they were doing was a crime against the Divines and the Empire. Besides, with their age disparity, this may be an easy fight.

Not so. The old woman’s skin became stone-like, gray and all. She drew a common dagger with a purple aura on it. Considering she was a necromancer, Rena could only speculate it was a Soul Trap Dagger. If Rena died on the blade or died while it’s magics still had influence on her, her soul would be taken into a black soul gem, which a necromancer surely had. From there, her soul could be used in their fell magics. All the more reason Rena had not to die.

With the dagger in hand, the necromancer charged the fighter, who met it by bringer her sword onto the necromancer’s wrist. It didn’t cut, as it seemed a spell had hardened the flesh to Rena’s attacks. She could wait, but she didn’t have the patience for it. With what strength and endurance that she could muster, Rena pushed the stone-covered necromancer to the edge of the ruins, the old woman’s dagger stabbing into her steel armor. The leader was thrown off the peak in time for the spell to wear and she died as she landed with a sickening crack echoing across the cave.

The energies faded as the ritual master lay dead. Rena was certain it was over. She threw the dagger aside, as all the enchantments it had was to the Soul Trap. She would need to make sure of that with a mage’s aid but was comforted in the knowledge that Haafinger was safe for now. For now.

* * *

It was time for Gunmar and Sorine to meet with Isran. They both chose to stay in Riften until Agata joined their party. The poor Nord wasn’t sure why; did they have such a low opinion of Isran that they wanted someone to stand between them?

Upon entering Dayspring Canyon, it could be seen that the Dawnguard’s presence was growing. The training yard was willing with crossbow wielding archers. The battlements were better manned, perhaps better than most forts. There were well enough people for the fact that some couldn’t perform their duties, so went fishing in the lake. They were definitely itching for something.

As Sorine and Gunmar entered the Fort, Agata could feel their tension. They were quite all the way during this travel. Granted, not everyone is a talker, but they had plenty of opportunity. Perhaps that’s how much Isran made them uncomfortable; he silenced you with your own thoughts. He’s pretty intimidating.

Isran was supposed to be in the foyer, but he didn’t seem to be on the floor. Then Agata noted how high the ceiling reached and that there was practically a balcony above them. Isran was there, looking down on them. The poor Nord realized how theatrical her guild leader was, and how this might be why he doesn’t keep that many friends.

Gunmar sighed. “All right Isran, you've got us all here. Now what do you want?”

“Hold it right there,” Isran ordered.

The way out of the foyer was shut. Suddenly, a bright, blinding light struck the ground between the three like a fragment of the sun.

“What are you doing?” Sorine asked in a shocked and confused tone.

And the light was gone in an instant. On inspection, Agata noticed the ceiling was opened and a strange device was mounted over it. A decent precaution, and reasonable, but a strain on the eyes.

“Making sure you're not vampires,” Isran explained, never moving from his perch, “Can't be too careful. So, welcome to Fort Dawnguard. I'm sure you've heard a bit of what we're up against. Powerful vampires, unlike anything we've seen before. And they have an Elder Scroll. If anyone is going to stand in their way, it's going to be us.”

Sorine seemed to accept that, but her patience was still at a loss. “This is all well and good, but do we actually know anything about what they're doing? What do we do now?”

“We'll get to that,” the leader assured, “For now, get acquainted with the space. Sorine, you'll find room to start your tinkering on that crossbow design you've been working on. Gunmar, there's an area large enough for you to pen up some trolls, get them armored up and ready for use. In the meantime, we're going to get to the bottom of why a vampire showed up here looking for you,” he pointed at Agata, “Let's go have a little chat with it, shall we?”

A vampire? Agata couldn’t think of anyone that would be here. Skathi, yes, but Isran knew about that and probably wouldn’t say it like that. If it was how he would say it, then that was why he didn’t have many friends.

There was one place Agata could think that the vampire would be. The first time she was here, Isran showed it to her. A torture room. If they captured any vampires for any reason, they would use it if they proved difficult to extract information from. It wasn’t an ease on Agata’s mind to have that place, with tools and tables no mortal deserved to be subjected to.

But maybe this one. When Agata entered the room, she found Isran opposite Serana. She wasn’t tied down, she wasn’t in chains and she wasn’t welcome here. Not after what she did.

Agata took her axe from her belt. “What are you doing here?!”

“This vampire showed up while you were away,” Isran explained, sounding above it, “I'm guessing it's the one you found in Dimhollow Crypt. Says it's got something really important to say to you. So, let's hear it.”

“No.” Agata gripped Serana by the throat and pushed her into the torture rack, the hanging over her face. “You took my sister away from me; give me a reason to let you live!”

The vampire’s demeanor didn’t strike the angry Nord as frightened. Frustrated, but not afraid. “I didn’t do anything to your sister,” she retorted, “I haven’t even seen her after the night-.”

The axe was touching Serana’s cheek. “Don’t lie to me!” Agata barked, “You used your vampire magic to bewitch her!”

Something was creeping on the vampire’s face, but the Nord wasn’t sure what it was. “I didn’t do anything,” she tried to explained, “I was just as surprised she did any of that as you.”

“Tell me the truth!” Agata screamed, letting the axe pierce the vampire’s skin.

“Soldier,” Isran barked, “Stand down!”

Say what you will about him, but Isran has a voice you listen to, if nothing else. Agata back away from Serana and let her pick herself up from the rack. She was still wary of her, but Serana seemed as though she wasn’t going fight. If anything, she was going to leave.

“What are you doing here?” Agata spat.

Serana’s hand was still on her neck, still shocked from the assault. “I'd rather not be here either, but I needed to talk to you. It's important, so please just listen before either of you lose your patience again.”

A twinge of fright peak out her face. That was what was creeping out. Agata felt a twinge of guilt for what happened. What she did got to Serana, no matter how hard she hid it. And it wasn’t the threatening itself; it was some Agata didn’t do that she reawaken in the vampire. It was hard to say, “She deserved it,” when she didn’t even know what it was.

“It's,” Serana continued, trying to edge out the words while fighting the shadow, “well, it's about me. And the Elder Scroll that was buried with me.”

“What about the scroll?” Agata asked, her voice lessening with shame.

“The reason I had it,” Serana explained, “and why I was down there.”

She went on, “It all comes back to my father. I'm guessing you figured this part out already, but my father's not exactly a good person. Even by vampire standards. He wasn't always like that, though. There was,” she paused to find the word, “a turn. He stumbled onto this obscure prophecy and just kind of lost himself in it.”

Agata hadn’t thought about anything like that. She never considered vampires being eviler than others; after Skathi, she painted them all as villainous fiends that corrupt everything they touch. But there was something Serana had the Nord hadn’t seen in other vampires: a soul. A battered soul, but still a soul.

“What sort of prophecy?” she asked.

“It's pointless and vague, like all prophecies,” Serana sighed, “The part he latched onto said that vampires would no longer need to fear the sun. That's what he's after. He wants to control the sun, have vampires control the world.” She shook her head, “Anyway, my mother and I didn't feel like inviting a war with all of Tamriel, so we tried to stop him. That's why I was sealed away with the Scroll.”

It was a lot to take in. Such a terrible fate. Not only would light be struck, but it might be the end of magic. It was said Magnus, the god of magic, created it as He left the mortal world, tearing a hole through Oblivion that was the sun. If that portal to Aetherius was blocked, not only would vampires be empowered to take over the world, a third of the people that might be able to do something about it would essentially have their hands removed.

“You took a big risk coming here,” Agata remarked.

“I did,” Serana nodded, “But something about you that made me think I could trust you. Was I wrong?"

Agata couldn’t look into Serana’s golden eyes. Skathi typically couldn’t either, but Agata had a reason she could understand. She was right not to think the Nord would help her, even if her rage were unwarranted. Things were happening that Agata didn’t understand, nor control, and she couldn’t deal with it. It was the end of her family again and she wanted someone to blame. She couldn’t think of why Skathi would do this.

“I don’t know,” she timidly admitted, “Maybe. I’ll try to trust you. I just wanted my sister back.”

Serana looked to feel that, maybe see a tear forming in the Nord’s eye. “Well, let's move on then,” she remarked, “I’ll see what I can do to help you if you help me.”

Isran didn’t say anything. He probably saw enough. It was a real blow to Agata’s ego to be in the same room as Isran and she was the aggressive one. Life was getting better as it was getting worse.


	12. Chapter 12

Auxiliary Benommek, or Ben to the one or two people that considered him a friend, had an important job. He stood at the entrance of the Castle Dour, taking note of everyone that came to and from the barracks. It was important because anyone that didn’t show up needed to be noted in case they were missing or dead, and anyone that did show up needed to be someone who was allowed to be there. The only ones were Legion personnel and the hold guards.

And now the Pentius Oculatus. Or at least they were supposed to be, but they refused to give Ben a record of who they could expect. He didn’t know if Commander Gaius would stay the night, nor did he know the names of any of the Oculatus personnel. He was a mere auxiliary, but it would’ve been useful to know if there were any names that would be suspicious. But no! The Oculatus just had to be terrible about paperwork!

The day was done, and Ben had seen the brunt of the traffic. Most of the Legionnaires and hold guards all turned in, and now was time for the usual suspects that arrived last. The officers that took the advice of being the first to arrive and the last to leave. They were strange, as they lack any idea as to how to actually enjoy sleep. Ben thanked the fact he actually savored the sensation.

The first was of course Captain Ansgar. Strapping man usually spent the days practicing his sword arm and training his men to learn his two-handed sword technique. He usually was wearing a linen shirt, but with the sweat he was building up, you’d think he’d let his glorious musculature sheen. But maybe he had a sense of modesty a monk would call overdoing it.

“Captain Ansgar Nordson,” the tall Nord stated to Ben.

“Noted,” Ben replied, “You know, you don’t need to say you’re name; I know who you are.”

“It’s protocol,” Ansgar stated, “I’m not going to shirk that.”

Ansgar then went into the barracks, wiping sweat of his brow with his near drenched shirt. Ben noted how he had a sense of honor that many would call stupid. The rules must be upheld, not matter if they’re unnecessary to their situation. He may actually have that wife he claimed to have. Something of a disappointment for Ben, but there were plenty of other people out there.

Such as Mariqua. No, not Mariqua; he was bloody weird. He often spoke of gods and their relationships, but it was so against doctrine and dogma that Ben was worried he would have to discuss things with the temple of the Divines. He claimed that the Dibella was his maid, how Hircine would have his hide, the ways Kynareth and Talos had fights about the place of the Nords. It was all together blasphemous, and Ben didn’t want to be a part of it.

He was also weird in other ways, noted by how he slinked into the barracks like a housecat. To Ben’s understanding, Khajiit didn’t act like that. Khajiit were normal creatures of sane dispositions, nothing like this. Sure, they may talk funny, but in Ben’s experience, everyone talked funny. I mean, what were these Imperials’ funny accents? It made them all sound like wimps.

The next to arrive was Alary, Rena’s indentured servant. She expressed no emotion by this time of day, not that she expressed much of any emotion. She seemed neutral as she floated through life like a piece of driftwood. To Ben’s understanding, she was learning the bardic arts to make a living for her master, but that’s what Ben gets told by others, not that he actually knew these things.

And then was Rena, a few hours later than she would be. Ben didn’t know why, but she looked like she’d been through the depths of Oblivion. Her armor was rent, covered in dirt and stains that might’ve been blood. She also looked altogether tired, like as you would if you were a member of the Legion. Altogether, she looked like she was in a fight.

But that didn’t mean she looked bad. There were things besides upkeeping one’s appearance that could make them look good. There was attitude, confidence, and Rena exuded confidence in every action. She wasn’t some sort of barmaid to be there to loot pretty; she was the type to give Dagrun Blood-Maiden a run for her money. The artists didn’t have a unified depiction of Dagrun, but they made it a point that she looked like she could take a hit from a mammoth and hit right back.

It may be of note that Ben objectified his colleagues. Well, he’s young, stupid, and has no one to call his own as far as a lover is concerned. He was a little desperate for some loving, even if that meant his fellow Legionnaires. But he knew that he wasn’t the type to ask anyone to join him for time together; he had to be asked for anything. He wasn’t the most confident in anything except the quality of his work.

And now the one thing that would shatter that confidence: the Penitus Oculatus. Their poor paperwork was going to be a pain for them, as they had to give their names at the entrance. This would be an annoying day. The group was just nine, so at least it would be easy, even if they were Imperial names. Seriously, how did they come up with these names?

“Alright, comrades,” Ben inquired, “your names?”

And so, they gave their weird names:

“Savalius.”

“Carullian.”

“Rufanian.”

“Saloria.”

“Alessarina.”

“Sevendia.”

“Natavo.”

“Reburd.”

“Gaius Maro.”

Ben took special note of the last name. Maro was the name of the commander, the only name of the commander of the Penitus Oculatus. For Imperials, a last name can denote a lineage. As such, it might be that Maro started his house from his work in the Penitus and it ended up being significant enough for his to gain power.

The group’s names were written down and they were allowed to enter the barracks. After that, Ben prepared the for the long, dull night shift. He sometimes curses the day he had decided to join the Legion. He expected to become a soldier, fighting the Stormcloaks and avenging his family against the Bear of Markarth. Instead, he was an administrator. Glorious as Dagrun Blood-Maiden’s battle against the one-thousand Orcs of the Velothi Mountains.

He didn’t expect another Penitus Oculatus to appear an hour later. A dark-skinned woman with a full quiver and bow, old enough to be Gaius Maro’s mother it seemed. In fact that would make sense, as Gaius appeared to have far darker skin than his father. Why was that? Whatever the reason, whether affair or Maro being fair paler than his wife, it was irrelevant to the situation.

“Apologies,” the woman remarked, “I had business with Inspector Dorelia.”

“It’s fine,” Ben replied, not really caring about the goings on of their lot, “Your name?”

“Rasalena.”

With that, Ben let the woman in. Within five minutes, she left. “Sorry, I forgot something in the armory,” she explained.

Ben was willing to let it go, just putting it in the log. Then three persons in night wear exited the barracks, shouting bloody murder. Ben wonder what in Oblivion just happened.

* * *

Gabriella left the bloody sanctuary for an hour. She was only out to get some venison for the stew this week, as they had little other options. It was something they did every day for every stew they made. She didn’t expect much to happen, as it was just a simple errand. Just go to the poacher, get the meat, come back. Twenty-six minutes to get there, eight minutes to get the meat, another twenty-six minutes to get back. It was clockwork.

She didn’t expect to find the scene she did. Apparently, while she was out, Veezara returned. And he was laying bloody on the ground. Still alive, but not many of her siblings arrived that severely injured. At least they drank a healing potion on the ride there. No, something had happened, Gabriella was certain of that the minute she saw the scene with her comrades stood over him.

Babette stood over Veezara, holding a potion in her hands. “Just try to relax, Veezara,” she cooed in that frightening child’s voice, “Let the elixir do its work. You'll feel better, shortly."

“Thank you, dear,” the Shadowscale said as he drank the potion like a baby, “You are most kind. The jester's cut feels as bad as it looks, I'm afraid.”

Jester? That had to mean Cicero. Only that madman wore the Merryman’s garb. While Gabriella had never seen him in action, she wasn’t about to gage his ability. If he could turn Veezara into a pin cushion, she would need to approach that bastard carefully.  
“Damn it, this never should have happened!” Astrid fumed, “We knew better. We knew better, and still we let our guards down.”

“I'll admit,” Festus stated, “even I'm having a hard time disagreeing with you.”

When Gabriella approached Astrid in the hopes of talking to her about this and their leader took note of her. “You're back. Good,” Astrid spoke first, “You'll want to hear this.”

“This has something to do with Cicero, doesn’t it?” Gabriella inquired, extrapolating what she could from the situation.

“The fool went absolutely berserk!” Astrid spat, “He wounded Veezara, tried to kill me, and then he fled. I knew that lunatic couldn't be trusted. Look, we've got to deal with this situation. You've got to deal with this situation.”

Gabriella couldn’t think of what would trigger him in particular. He seemed insane altogether, but what would bring out that madness? No matter, there were other things to do. “What do you want me to do?” she inquired.

“I want you to find that miserable little fool and end his life! But first,” Astrid ranted before calming slightly, “find my husband. Make sure he's all right. After the attack, Arnbjorn flew into a rage. When Cicero left. Arnbjorn went after him. They disappeared into the wild. Search Cicero's room. Maybe there's something in there that sheds some light on where he might have gone. Let me know the minute you find something. I've got to see to Veezara, and calm everyone down.”

There was obviously something missing, but that wasn’t important right now. Arnbjorn’s lycanthropic nature made him a prime hunter, but madness was also something that went part and parcel with it. Arnbjorn couldn’t always control how he acted when he became a beast, and there was no telling what he’d do without restraint. Or where he’d go. He was essentially a madman chasing a madman. Fantastic.

“It's true, I'm afraid,” Festus remarked, “Cicero was a little whirlwind, slashing this way and all that. It would have been funny if he weren't trying to murder us all.”

“Don't forget the ranting and raving,” Nazir spoke up, “About the Night Mother, how she was the true leader of the Dark Brotherhood, and Astrid was just a ‘pretender.’”

This had been an issue in the sanctuary since Cicero came back. In fact, it was an issue throughout Astrid’s entire leadership. She was accused of being a usurper by some, and Gabriella could tell Festus and Babette took issue with her. Perhaps they blamed her for the history panning out how they did, with no Listener and no Night Mother, but Astrid was the one who brought them through it. Gabriella didn’t necessary like her leader, but she still gave her respect.

Gabriella took her leave of the discussion and began searching through Cicero’s abode. The lodgings in the sanctuary were relatively scant, but there were still areas where they rested their heads simply fine. Cicero’s was isolated from the others, as few wanted to be bunkmates with that madman. At least the walls didn’t look like a butcher’s shop.

Amongst his belongings were these journals. Journals tended to be a faux pax for an assassin. Having a paper trail that leads others to your location weren’t things one would want, but Cicero was mad, so maybe he was dumb as well.

In the first was a recounting of his early days as an assassin. He wrote of his assassinations, whether they be a baroness or a Grand Champion of the Cyrodiilic arena. He also wrote of the decline of the Brotherhood, with the loss of sanctuaries and the last Listener, Alisanne Dupre, making consistent visits. Gabriella knew he was from Cyrodiil but didn’t consider what that history might’ve entailed.

As Gabriella read further, she found this turned into resource to learn the fall of the Dark Brotherhood from the perspective of someone who lived it. Sanctuaries fallen, the Bravil riots bringing the Night Mother’s remains to light, and even the death of Dupre. The things this man had experience was beyond unsettling for the Dunmer sorceress.

He spoke of how the jobs dried up without a Listener, how no new one was chosen. Their leaders kept to the dogma that the Night Mother must reveal who performed the Black Sacrament, not that they approach those rumored to hold such contracts. Gabriella can attest that it may be more proactive to search for contracts, it was also dangerous to approach someone who might not want someone dead. She heard Mikaela had actually followed a rumor that someone perform the Black Sacrament to have Grelod the Kind killed. Impressive.

The part that got difficult to read was Cicero’s recount of the fall of his sanctuary, the last in Cyrodiil. It was clear he was losing his mind, laughing at his comrades deaths. But could you blame him? After all the death and destruction he witness, who wouldn’t lose all bearing on reality. Who wouldn’t just force themselves to laugh? Laughter doesn’t mean you’re sad, doesn’t it?

After that, the journals became easier to read. They were all quite familiar, as he moved to Skyrim, met the Falkreath Sanctuary, but two things stood out. First, he learned the words to open the black door to the Dawnstar Sanctuary, an abandoned base after they couldn’t use the space. Second, he believed Mikaela was the Listener after being tasked to find the Listener. Madness, but it may be useful.

Having read this, Gabriella knew her prey would likely be in the Dawnstar Sanctuary on the other side of Skyrim. It was time, then, for her to use her stead. The essence of the great horse Shadowmere had been passed down to the horses of the Falkreath Sanctuary, and so their stead would accomplish great distances faster than the average horse. So, Gabriella mounted her steed and set out for blood.

As she rode off, she shouted, “Away, Rainbow Midnight!”

* * *

Rena appeared in court with finer clothes than what she had before. Not to say she wore rotting rags before; she appeared in the outfit she had on yesterday’s wedding, bloodstained and all. As such, anything would’ve been better than that, but the fact she went for the best the tailor’s at Radiant Raiment had to offer was clearly an improvement. Well, not pay; the owner gave it for free as long as Rena mentioned where she got it. Not like she liked it; it was as heavy and constricting as spider web.

But no matter, she wasn’t here to demonstrate how she slew the coven of necromancers as much as declare that was what she did. The Wolf Queen was nowhere to be found, soul or anything, and Rena was here to say as much. It couldn’t be said that some magic or whatnot would cause some problems later on, but that wasn’t what Rena was here to say. Perhaps letting Sybille Stentor know a thing or two would allow them all to avoid some issues.

With the bard a-singing, Rena approached the steward, who greeted, “You've returned,” Falk remarked, “Good. What did you find at Wolfskull Cave?”

“Some Necromancers were attempting to summon and bind Potema,” Rena explained, mindful to keep her voice down around the other members of court.

His eyes went wide. “Potema herself?” he nearly gasped, “Please tell me you stopped them.”

“I interrupted their ritual,” Rena assured him, “It's done”

A grateful sigh came from Falk. “You've done a larger service to the realm than you could possibly know. A resurrected Potema,” he frowned, “I shudder at the thought.”

With a coin purse put in Rena’s hand, the steward remarked, “Anyone with a stout heart like yours is welcome here.”

As Rena went to leave, it occurred to her that she hadn’t fulfilled her bargain. She needed to tell where she got the clothes. As much as she hated those clothes, she gave her word. Hopefully, Jarl Elisif would make up her own opinion. Small talk with the Jarl wasn’t something Rena thought was appropriate without having some need to talk to them, but there was never a need to talk to Elisif; her steward was running everything!

“Pardon,” Rena asked the Jarl, “would you be willing to give your opinion of my outfit?”

The Jarl, who Rena could feel the eyes of on her the entire time she was here, stated, “It's quite fetching actually. The craftsmanship is excellent.” She said it in that neutral tone someone uses when they want to be objective to spare your feelings.

Rena thought that was fair. “I got it from Radiant Raiment,” she explained.

Elisif’s expression was most unchanged. Not happy, not sad, not angry; simply fine. “Oh really? Well you can tell them that I will be putting in a request for a few dresses quite soon.” Rena wouldn’t blame her if she were lying; they looked better than they wore.

The fighter bowed and began to leave and the bard she was moving past tried to get her attention between songs. Rena really wanted to leave. Being in court made her feel like she was some powerless girl and it wasn’t a feeling she wanted to maintain. Give a sword and throw her into the battlefield and she’ll be absolutely fine. Put her in court, she’s a fish trying to leave the lake.

“Pardon?” the bard, an older woman with a shrill voice, asked, “Are you Rena Donton?”

Rena sighed and turned around. “Yes,” she confirmed in a somewhat quieter voice than the bard’s, “What of it?”

“Well, I’m Inge Six-Fingers,” she introduced. Rena glanced at the bard's hands, and yes, she did have six fingers on each hand. “The lute teacher at the college, and I wanted to talk to you about Alary.”

Rena was quite concerned with that. She hadn’t seen Alary all day and initially thought it was because she was either asleep or already at the college. If she were in some sort of trouble, it would reflect badly on Rena. Worse, she could ruin her life all over again.  
“What happened?” Rena asked.

“Well,” Inge began, “we believe she just isn’t suited to be a bard. Her interest in the traditions of the profession is lacking. Her skill just isn’t there. The confidence you saw at the Burning of King Olaf was the most we ever saw of her when asked to demonstrate. She’s just not cut out to be a bard.”

Rena began to worry. She knew that this was for her own good but didn’t know if this would be good for her. After only a few days as a student, it became that clear that she wasn’t cut out to be a bard? Rena should’ve seen it coming, but the alternatives were beyond what she thought should be considered. Perhaps she was too harsh on them; Sybille Stentor might be a better alternative to something she clearly hate.

“What’s more,” Inge continued, “she doesn’t get along with other students. I don’t know if she’s an easy target or what, but she’s gotten into a fair too many fights to consider it as anything else than a defining aspect of her time here. We don’t think she’s long for the college.

The fights was another thing. Rena knew Alary hadn’t come from the best of places, but she didn’t think that it would lead to this. Perhaps a talk to Alary and Viarmo about this, not an old woman that could just be lying because she was disruptive in lute class. Still though, she was going to ask what Alary wanted.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Rena stated and finally left the Blue Palace.

Rena had a lot to think about, but the way to Castle Dour went past the Bards’ College, so there was the opportunity. She could just go in, talk with Viarmo about this and deal with it. Whether it meant Alary stayed with them would be settled and this whole debacle could be over.

But Rena was hesitant. She saw Alary’s timid nature every day she saw her, but what she didn’t see where this fighting nature came from. She was uncertain how she could get into fights and she didn’t want to know how. Willful ignorance is a fine drug and Rena was likely to get addicted if she didn’t face it now.

Hesitantly, she entered the college. With help, she found her way to Viarmo’s quarter’s. They were as fine as an Altmer headmaster to a bards’ college could be expected, finer than Radiant Raiment. He looked up from his work to greet her.

“I assume Inge told you Alary was an issue,” he remarked.

“Yes,” Rena admitted, “What’s this about getting into fights?”

Viarmo nodded. “Yes, turns out, Alary kicked a hornet’s nest,” he explained, “The first one was all on her. Some students were talking about trying out some skooma and Alary got into an argument with them about it being a vile substance. She defending the law against them but lost her temper and threw the first punch. After that, it was all those students’ friends getting involved and they threw the first punches.”

Rena could almost breathe a sigh of relief. Alary wasn’t the aggressor in all this and was showing honor to the law. However, the fact she couldn’t debate without fighting was a point against her. Rena wouldn’t have guessed someone who grew up on the streets to defend illegal things. Besides that, these students were quite concerning.

“I assume you’ve taken some action against these students,” Rena questioned.

“Don’t worry,” Viarmo assured, “we’re investigating each student for connections to the skooma trade. We’re not getting the hold guard involved yet, and please don’t use the Legion to investigate.”

Dammit, Rena thought. “But what about her shyness?” Rena asked, changing the topic, “Inge said she was far too shy.”

The headmaster regretfully nodded. “Her wit with a pen is better than her speaking or singing voices,” he remarked, “Or her fingers on a lute. I wouldn’t recommend her for this life.”

Rena nodded. She knew what she had to do. She was going to ask Alary if she wanted to leave the Bards’ College. A no meant she stayed, a yes meant she was free to leave with no judgement. And she had a feeling it would be yes.

* * *

By the time Skathi returned to the castle, Septimus’ device was almost filled. As it turns out, Elves were just lining up to die. Even a Thalmor assassination party decided to die by her blade. That and bandits made her task bizarrely easy, but there was still the Falmer. They were not so easy to find in the wild, and Skathi was unwilling to delve into Dwemer ruins unless she needed to.

When she handed the Bloodstone Chalice to Marethi and told him of the attempts on her life, he seemed blasé of the whole affair. He explained members of the court were always vying for power, even their lord’s throne to some extent, and this was just more of the same. He made it clear to Skathi, whether he intended to or not, that Volkihar needed to change under an iron fist.

Skathi formerly fed on the one of the human cattle for the second time. Strangely, it was harder to justify this to herself. She had fed on bandits while on the road. While they tasted inferior to Volkihar’s supply, it was always in the heat of the moment to kill them for they killed her. These were Men who were groomed from however long they lived in the castle, whether from birth or from abduction, to be food. The thought of that made Skathi promise to only eat what she hunted herself; at least she say they lived a good life.

The promises to keep some day were interrupted by her summons to the courtroom. Apparently, Lord Harkon had an announcement of the utmost importance. Here, Skathi was certain she’d learn of her master’s designs. When he was stood on the landing behind the throne, it become so truly clear.

“Scions of the night! Hear my words!” he did declare, “The prophesied time is at last upon us. Soon we will claim dominion over the sun itself and forge a new realm of eternal darkness.”

Skathi should’ve figured it would have something to do with the sun. Her brief time as vampire had it clear they have an aversion to sunlight that was well justified. She wasn’t sure how crazy this would get, but it was definitely going to be insane.

He continued, “Now that I have reclaimed one of my Elder Scrolls, we must find a Moth Priest to read it. I have spread false rumors about the discovery of an Elder Scroll in Skyrim to lure a Moth Priest here. Now it is time to see if those efforts have borne fruit. Go forth and search the land for rumors of a Moth Priest within our borders. Look to the cities. Speak to innkeepers, carriage drivers, anyone who would meet a traveler. Go now and carry out this task. This is my command!”

Talk could be heard around the court along the lines of, “It will be done, my lord!” “A Moth Priest?” “Hm. Most interesting.”

Meanwhile, Skathi had no clue what a Moth Priest was. Her best guess was someone who knew Elder Scrolls, but it had been an issue for her, even when she read an Elder Scroll. She decided she would need some help with this and went to the only person she was certain knew more than her and that she could actually trust to show any form of weakness.

“What do you reckon a Moth Priest is?” Skathi asked.

“They’re a cult in charge of any Elder Scroll found in the Empire’s domain,” Serana explained, “If anyone were going to read an Elder Scroll, it would be one of them.”

Skathi supposed that made sense. If they didn’t have something like this, that would be a surprise. In fact, she was certain she read about this and forgot where she did.

“Where would a Moth Priest actually go?” she speculated, “Do you have any ideas?”

“Well, back before I,” Serana started before motioning toward her vampiric features, “you know. The College of Winterhold was the first place I'd think to go for any kind of magic or historical thing. The wizards know about all kinds of things that people shouldn't know about. Actually, now that I think of it,” she paused as though considering something, “I'm going to come along with you. I've been really wanting to get out and explore a bit.”

“Huh,” Skathi remarked, “I suppose that’s alright.”

The vampire novice wasn’t entirely certain it was a bright idea to let some who, last she went out, locked herself in a tomb for a few hundred years at least back out, but that wasn’t her choice; that was Lord Harkon’s. To be honest, there was something hypnotic about Serana that was hard for Skathi to put her finger on. As far as she knew, it wasn’t hypnosis; those types of spells were useless on her. One of those intangible qualities that made some people worthwhile and others worthless.

As the two vampires exited the castle, Skathi asked, “What do you know about Elder Scrolls?”

“I mean,” Serana was hesitant to reply, “as much as anyone. Not a lot. You'd figure a couple hundred years locked away with one would have given me some insights, but no. Turns out you don't learn much from just sleeping with something.”

That was fair to Skathi. “I guess we'll have to keep looking for that Moth Priest, then,” she remarked.

“I guess so,” the senior vampire quietly agreed.

There seemed to be something eating at her. It wasn’t that Skathi was a master of reading people, but she did see her parents act like this went they couldn’t talk about something. The difference was that her parents tended tell each other eventually. She wasn’t sure Serana would ask, but the Dragonborn wasn’t about to force it out of her.

As the rowed across the way to shore, Serana did speak up. “Why did you accept Harkon’s gift?

Skathi sighed. That was a lot to unpack. “Well,” she explained, “I’m useless in the real world.”

Serana seemed confused. “See,” Skathi continued, “I was a wild woman for nearly twelve years, living off the land to survive. I hunted what I ate and wore and never minded the affairs of others. I didn’t need coin to survive. I didn’t need a trade. I didn’t need a license to feed of clothe myself.”

She continued, “And now that I returned to civilization, I found I couldn’t live the same again. I needed to pay taxes, I needed a trade that I didn’t have to worry about getting arrested for and I needed all these things I couldn’t deal with. I want out and Castle Volkihar is my way out.”

“And the Dawnguard wasn’t?” Serana asked.

“A guild is good, but I never grafted with any of them,” Skathi explained, “The Dawnguard worst of all. They’re a bunch of idiots that are going to get themselves killed. With the Clan, I can stay out everyone’s way, never need to do much and live the fine life.”

Not all of that was true, but most was. Even Clan Volkihar was a terrible choice and she would certainly sabotage this “domination over the sun” business, but she wasn’t about to say it in front of their lord’s daughter. She had to seem loyal and not like she’d kill every single person in that castle if it meant she’d live her perfect life.

* * *

From Serana’s information, Agata was sent out to find a Moth Priest. Isran sent nine groups of scouts to scourer the nine holds of Skyrim. They were to find every clue from every innkeeper and carriage driver they could talk to. There weren’t many in their ranks, but enough to cover a good amount of ground. This would be the first true test of the Dawnguard.

They were sent on their way with Eastern Huskies. Their breed was commonly furred black and white with blue eyes, but their aesthetics paled in comparison to their purpose as aides to Nord warriors. Agata herself was given a fussy little hound called Bran that often perched himself Kili to rest. Little temperamental things were like puppies.

At the moment, Agata was in Dragon Bridge, searching for any sign of the priest. They were mostly there passing through to Solitude, as the West Skyrim Carriage Company didn’t have driver out here. There wasn’t much there, but they had ridden quite ways and were ready to take a break. Agata was elected to keep the animals company while everyone got food and mead from the local inn.

The minute the poor Nord got off of her stead, she stubbled like she’d hurt a muscle. Stay in one position long enough and you’re bound to feel terrible. What did help was the sudden weight thrown on her back like a child called for a sudden piggyback. Agata fell to the ground and, by the time her front felt about as bad as her back, she heard the whiny noises of Bran coming from on top of her. She was sure these things were spoiled.

“You’ve got a funny dog there!” said the voice that could only come from a child.

Agata raised her head from the dirt, such as it was, and looked upon the boy. “I’d offer to sell him to you,” she remarked, “but he’ll do whatever wants and nothing more at best and eat you and your family at worst.”

The boy seemed unphased. “Nah, I’ve got Lucky,” he said with pride, shooting a look at a goat in his sight, “Watcha doing in Dragon Bridge?”

Agata didn’t see the harm in telling him. “We’re looking for a fella,” she remarked as she lifted herself up from under Bran, “A Moth Priest. You probably haven’t seen him.”

The boy shrugged. “I don’t know what a Moth Priest is,” he shamelessly admitted, “but I did see an old man in a robe not long ago. He was riding in a wagon with some Imperial guards.”

Granted, this could be someone else, but there wasn’t that many else. In fact, the only thing that came to Agata mind was a Moth Priest. If a cult dedicated discovering and understanding something with such fear inspiring power as an Elder Scroll, and they operated with the Empire’s permission, they would have at least an Imperial escort.

Agata bolted into the inn and yelled to her comrades, “I think we got him!”

Their leader, Vanik, handed his unfinished mead to the young lad with long arms who was already holding most of the drinks and approached Agata. “Are you sure?” he briskly asked.

“He had an Imperial escort,” she clarified.

Vanik was ex-Legion and his temperament showed it. “Sounds about right,” he agreed, “Dawnguard, move out!”

The half a dozen or so scouts ran out the inn with bits of food in their teeth they didn’t bother to eat. They had just missed their person of interest, so there was no time for manners or courtesy, thought they did make sure to pay for their supplies. They bolted out Dragon Bridge like Cliff Racers did so long ago.

Vanik took the horn from his side and start blowing it with all the force of his lungs. Agata was told if they ever got a lead of the Moth Priest, they were to blow the horn and rally reinforcements. That was what Vanik was doing, despite the attention this would gain them. They were the Dawnguard; few could match their crossbows.

They came upon a scene of a carriage overturned, Legionnaire corpses fallen alongside the driver, the horse nowhere to be seen. Agata and Vanik dismounted to search the scene. There was luggage scatter around with all the care of a dog digging to hide his bone. The found a vampire’s corpse they didn’t initially notice and on him was a note:

“I have new orders for you.

“Prepare an ambush just south of the Dragon Bridge. Take the Moth Priest to Forebears' Holdout for safekeeping until I can break his will.

Malkus.”

Agata shared the note with her leader and they both mounted up. He knew where this Forebears’ Holdout was from his service and lead the party to ride there. The dogs had taken to the chase and even Bran ran alongside the horses’ bolt. In fact, they seemed of equal speed, despite the horses’ advantage. Agata thought these were damn fine dogs.

Upon finding the Holdout, the party dismounted and filled into the cave with shields in hand. They appeared metal and hard to handle, but some choice enchantments gave them a certain lith. Through the cave, they found no resistance, but they came upon a cliff overlooking a ruin of some fort, they surmised, and spotted activity there in the form of Volkihar garb and a strange turquoise light.

Agata, Vanik and the rest of the party took out their crossbows and loaded them. They arranged themselves on the cliff and lined up their shots to hit their own targets. With one synchronized volley, they more than halved their resistance. In reprise, the vampires threw lightning at the scouts, but the shields’ stood their way, and their enchantments nulled the effectiveness of the spells.

Vanik led the rest of the party down the way, dogs by their sides and ran to meet the remaining resistance. Their death hounds were no match for Eastern Huskies, and the vampires’ finesse with the blade couldn’t breach Dawnguard armor, not as much as their axe cut through their boiled leather armor. No one, not even the Orc Agata expected to a hard-fought battle, was much against the party.

The party went to the center of the fort, where the turquoise light originated. It was a bubble of shadow and strange light, and inside it was an old man in robes, though their color was hard to determine behind the energy. It was most likely the Moth Priest.  
“Fan out and find anything that could defuse the energy!” Vanik ordered.

Before anyone could blink, an arrow cut through Vanik throat like paper. The remaining Dawnguard took cover behind the ruins. Agata assumed that their shield bearers were dead, as there was only one way into the cave.

She also noted she’d never fought a vampire that used bow and arrow, not even a thrall.


	13. Chapter 13

Half the Dawnguard squad dead, Skathi had found their weapons skill worthless. She had found the shield bearers at the entrance lack an awareness that would’ve seen her with dagger drawn. When the squad didn’t take note of it, she just assumed they weren’t the most perceptive bunch and wouldn’t missed their leader. Well, that turned out to be untrue.

With no chance of sending an arrow through the ruins’ stonework, Skathi had to move closer. She snuck down the cliff, keeping an eye on the soldiers all the way. They never moved from their positions and she was unaware if they saw her. Perhaps they would take note if she were in Vampire Lord form, but that form was always uncomfortable.

But as she approached, the huskies ran from the rubble and charged at her. Before they could pounce on her, she Shouted.

**“Kaan Drem Ov!”**

****

And the dogs went from blood hungry to as calm as you can get a husky. The Shout was devised situationally, to sooth animals with murderous intent and keep them from killing. Kyne’s Peace, it was called. Despite needing to drink blood to survive and having perhaps a hundred people fallen onto her blades, she couldn’t hurt a dog. To her, dogs were wolves without the freedom.

****

Skathi knew her position was give away and the Dawnguards rose from their cover to strike her with crossbows. However, they hadn’t taken the time to aim, so only one of them hit, staggering her to the ground. She pulled the bolt from her gut and threw it aside, looking to find the one who hit her.

****

And there she found Agata was amongst them. A cruel twist of fate that her sister would be on the other side of this fight, but not entirely unexpected. Still, Skathi couldn’t find it within herself to kill her only family left.

****

The other two were less lucky. Skathi bolted to the closest one of the two with sword and dagger drawn and when he tried to smash her with his axe, he lost his hand midair. Without a second to grieve, his throat felt the dagger and he fell to the ground, dead.

****

Before she knew it, she felt two long arms wrap around her and pick her up with as much might as she supposed a young lad could manage. The young lad turned to face Agata and Skathi saw her sister terror in her face. The Dragonborn supposed there was reason in that, but her throat was still sore from the last Shout, so she was in that brief moment of vulnerability.

****

“Do it!” the young lad almost screamed, “Kill her! Kill her!”

****

Agata hesitated two seconds too long and Skathi knew it. She kicked the young lad’s leg and his grip loosen just enough for her to slip out. Skathi punched him in the face, dazing him, and pushed him far enough so that she could grab her sword. She stabbed in the side, where he had no armor, and pushed hard enough to reach into his rib cage.

****

The last one alive was Agata. Skathi waited for her to act. She wouldn’t do anything until her sister did. She ran faster than even Skathi ever ran. She didn’t blame her; she didn’t want to fight anyway.

****

Skathi entered the place the Dawnguards were protecting. It had what had to be the Moth Priest in a black and greenish bubble. She was mostly here because of the horn blowing, as it attracts a lot of attention and she wanted to know what the fuss was. It seemed she was right to check.

****

Searching around, she found a strange stone with turquoise veins on the body of an Orcish vampire. Considering it was the same color as the bubble, she assumed it was connected. There being an alter at the edge of the energy made that a fair assumption. She placed the stone on the altar and the bubble faded into nothing, leaving the Moth Priest open to the world.

****

“I'm not afraid of you!” he proclaimed, a hand on his sword, “Your kind are a blight upon Tamriel, monster!”

****

It was obvious he wouldn’t go quietly. Skathi decided this was going to need a delicate touch. She used that hypnosis she heard vampires had, looking directly into his eyes, and focusing to find his will to shake it, being as uncomfortable as he was with this. The fire in his eyes lulled enough for Skathi to bite his neck with no resistance.

****

Not every victim of a vampire’s bite killed them or bled them or turned them. There were subtle differences between them, like pressure, that caused different results. This was something Serana taught her, along with how to use the hypnosis. When Skathi pulled away, the Moth Priest was her thrall.

****

“By the divines! It's as if my eyes have been opened!” he proclaimed, “I am blinded by the light of your majesty. I, I must obey you. What would you have of me, mistress?”

****

Well, if that wasn’t an ego boost. “I command you to travel to Castle Volkihar,” Skathi ordered with a tone of a prideful woman.

****

“Certainly,” the priest replied, “Where can I find this castle?”

****

Skathi figured that was fair, given the castle wasn’t entirely well known. “Off the northern coast of Skyrim, due west of Solitude,” she explained, dropping her facade.

****

Her thrall nodded. “I'll set out at once, then.”

****

And so, he left to the castle. Skathi stayed behind to a moment to gather anything she found interesting in the ruins and discarded satchels. She didn’t find much, and the dogs had run off with Agata. That was fair enough.

****

After she exited, she found Serana waiting by the pitched horses of the fallen Dawnguard. She chose not to interfere and Skathi chose not to fight that. If she were going to mess with the will of the lord’s daughter, she would invite far too much scorn to be able to stay in the clan.

****

“Did you see that Dawnguard leaving?” Skathi asked.

****

“Yes,” Serana replied, “That was Agata, right?”

****

“Yes,” the Dragonborn nodded, “Did you do anything to stop her?” She asked in part to confirmed her cowardice, mostly to know if she had lost the last of her family.

****

“No,” Serana answered, “I didn’t think it was worth it to kill one Dawnguard who wasn’t bothering me.”

****

Skathi thought that was fair, but that nagging feeling that she wasn’t doing it right came along. Perhaps it was because it was her sister, or because she was so inexperience with anything close to a military conflict, but she couldn’t help but think she was doing it wrong.

****

The two vampires took a pair of horses and set the rest loose. Serana noted that the Moth Priest took one of the horses for his own journey. Skathi nodded, but she couldn’t spare a thought about it. She was more intrenched in the thought that she was just out for herself, not the clan or the Dawnguard. She figured she was being selfish, not committing to either side really, only in a vampire for her own gain. She wondered if she’d meet some wretched fate for this or if planning to subvert this “conquering the sun” business would redeem her.

****

It was up to the gods if her soul was truly damned.

****

* * *

****

In life, Lucien Lachance was a loyal member of the Black Hand, and a servant of the Night Mother and his Dread Father, Sithis. He was a Speaker for Ungolim, the last Listener of the Spetim Dynasty and the Third Era. He served well but did come to die by the hand of his comrade. He never knew why.

****

But that was not the end of his service and he knew that. He went to Sithis upon death, but he didn’t rest. Every servant of Sithis must be prepared to do his bidding at a moment’s notice. And so, he trained and waited to be called upon again. He would often be summoned to Mundas, the mortal realm, to aid the brothers, sisters or otherwise of the Dark Brotherhood.

****

And he was called upon again. Once again, he was brought to aid in the death of a mortal. He never got used to the process of returning to Mundas, always feeling excruciating pain when he did so. Never did he learn why it hurt so much in the many years he was a spectral assassin, only that he did. He also never learned how long it had been since he first died. No one told him anything; it only had to infer things.

****

Upon reaching Mundas, he found his summoner was none other than Gabriella the Dunmer Sorceress. She had become a frequent ally of late, though he didn’t know if frequent meant three days or three years. She had always proven a crafty mage and a dangerous assassin, so it was always a joy to work alongside her, unlike the recruits that used Lucien as a crutch.

****

As the late Speaker wonder who their target was, he heard a strange echo throughout their surroundings. “Listener! Is that you? Oh, I knew you'd come. Send the best to defeat the best. Astrid knew her stupid wolf couldn't slay sly Cicero.”

****

A shrill voice said much. Cicero seemed quite mad to believe Gabriella was the Listener; even he as a ghost could tell she didn’t have that honor. He also recognized Astrid’s name, if it was the girl that used him once and never did again. Lucien wondered what in Oblivion had been going on in recent years. Especially since he could tell they were in the ruins of a sanctuary. Had things really gotten that bad?

****

Both mystic assassins went deeper into the sanctuary. Lucien couldn’t recognize which one they were in, nor could he guess. Perhaps it was because he had only ever been in Cyrodiil, so that narrowed things down. It probably wasn’t Morrowind because that was the Morag Tong’s territory and it definitely wasn’t Cyrodiil because he knew them as well as he knew the void at this point.

****

But no matter the province, Lucien knew the Brotherhood never left their sanctuaries for others to pilfer or utilize for their own needs. Even if you got past the Black Door, the ruin had the ghosts of assassins that once called this place home to defend it. And they were tasked with laying traps for fools to fall into. Right now, they could become fools.

****

Gabriella took one step wrong and spike came from the wall, nearly stabbing her. Lucien could avoid them with ease, Gabriella less so. She clearly wasn’t as acrobatic as the spectral assassin, which wasn’t a surprised. Once again, the madman spoke up.

****

“Ouch! Pointy, pointy! My home is well defended. I always have been a stickler for details. Get it? ‘Stick-ler.’ Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Oh, I slay me!”

****

Lucien became quite annoyed by this Cicero. He was clearly a member of the Dark Brotherhood, but his mind clearly had no mind in reality. What had driven this assassin to madness? These questions went through Lucien’s mind, but he had no time to think of why, only to cut through them.

****

In the next chamber, they found it full of the sanctuary guards, the ghosts of the assassins. Now, they may be able to fight them, as their forms were easy to disrupt. But the floor was covered in oil, likely still good. Gabriella could summon flames to consume the wraiths in the very flammable liquid they stood in. And so, they did.

****

Gabriella threw a fireball into the center of the room and it burst into an inferno. The astral forms were quick to expire with the force and flames disrupting them. As they fell into nothingness, Cicero spoke up again.

****

“You're, you’re still alive. Cicero respects the Listener's abilities, of course, but could you at least slow down a bit? I'm not what I used to be. Heh.”

****

Once again, Lucien pondered what drove the fool to this madness. And what was this business with the Listener?

****

Further into the sanctuary, they found their path went through a shattered stain glass window, of what Lucien couldn’t say for certain. It was likely Sithis. The window led to a frozen cave, and that’s when the ghost realize they were in Skyrim. In fact, he noticed how often he had been called to Skyrim, so the fact it took him this long to realize this was surprising.

****

In the cave, they found a mighty troll. It was much like how Lucien understood the trolls of this region looked like, but this one was different. It had bright green eyes, green fur, and far fleshier skin. Lucien had heard of such a creature, the Uderfrykte of Solsteihm, but he questioned the likelihood of the creature’s continued existence.

****

Gabriella chose to fight it, using her magics, but Lucien took pause. Something occurred to him, like Sithis was whispering in his ear. This never happens. It occurred to him that Cicero was the Keeper of the Night Mother. If he was the Keeper, he must be important to the Brotherhood’s existence. These whispers told him the Brotherhood was less than ten assassins now.

****

Lucien then saw the future of the Brotherhood, and the past. It was all aflame, with brothers and sister laid dead. Men in Legion uniforms stood over them with barrels of oil in hand. All that was left was a woman of vengeance that walked through flames unburnt. Lucien didn’t know what it meant, but he did know that Sithis was against Gabriella being here.

****

As the troll laid dead, the spectral assassin spoke up. “I will kill this jester if you so desire, but there is a disturbance in the Void. Our Dread Father does not wish this.”

****

“What?” the Dunmer questioned. She was shocked by this, as she should be.

****

“The Keeper is a sacred position within the Dark Brotherhood,” Lucien continued, “Ask yourself: do you trust the wisdom of our Lady?”

****

Gabriella didn’t have the time to answer, as Lucien’s time on Mundas was over once again. Once again, he fell into the Void and the pain of death burned through him. He hoped that Gabriella headed his words.

****

* * *

****

Upon Skathi’s return to Castle Volkihar, there was much celebration over her actions. Though the vampires of this court would betray her and steal her glory for their own gain, they let her have this moment of acclaim. It was wise, for she would kill anyone who claimed her deeds were there’s, damn the consequences.

****

Skathi soaked in the attention while Serana slinked into the shadows. The Dragonborn wasn’t certain why. You’d think the lord’s daughter would want attention more than the wild woman that was still getting used to regularly talking to people again. It was confusing.

****

“Well done!” Harkon congratulated, somehow not as stiff as when his daughter returned after more than an era, “Somehow I knew it would be you and Serana who found our moth priest.”

****

“I have made the moth priest my thrall,” Skathi replied, proclaiming it to the entire court as Harkon did.

****

“Yes, I see that,” the Vampire Lord noted, “I trust his capture was not too difficult a task?”

****

“The Dawnguard tried to stop me, but they posed no threat.” While her response was truthful, Skathi tried to hide her guilt for her actions.

****

“I wish I could have been there to hear the sounds of their screams,” Harkon admitted, not like he confessed to evil, but as though he were jealous of Skathi, which was beyond her desire to experience.

****

The vampire lord tempered his flame, eying the Moth Priest. “Well, your thrall awaits,” he remarked, “and we have given him the Elder Scroll. Command him to read it and let us hear the words of prophecy together.”

****

Skathi nodded and turned to the Moth Priest. He was at the focal point of the court before the banquet tables. This was not just for the castle’s lord to hear, but the entirety of Clan Volkihar. This was probably the most selfless thing Harkon has ever done in his life.

****

“Master, I have done as you asked and traveled here,” the priest announced with pride buried by desperation.

****

“I have a new task for you, thrall,” Skathi replied, using his new lot in life, as was expected.

****

“Oh, pardon my manners; I haven’t even told you my name!” he said in remorseful shock. He bowed and said, “Dexion Evicus. What is it that you need me to do?”

****

The Dragonborn was sadden by the fact that his loyalty was stolen by her. “You must read an Elder Scroll,” she explained, pointing towards the scroll in his hand.

****

“Ah, yes, the Elder Scroll!” Dexion beamed, holding the scroll up with excitement, “I admit, I'm looking forward to this.”

****

“Then you may begin your reading,” Skathi said only to establish unneeded dominance in front of the court.

****

Dexion nodded, “Of course, mistress.”

****

He opened the Elder Scroll and Skathi stepped back to let him read. He read,

****

“I see a vision before me, an image of a great bow. I know this weapon! It is Auriel's Bow! Now a voice whispers, saying ‘Among the night's children, a dread lord will rise.’ In an age of strife, when dragons return to the realm of men, darkness will mingle with light and the night and day will be as one.

****

The voice fades and the words begin to shimmer and distort. But wait, there is more here. The secret of the bow's power is written elsewhere. I think there is more to the prophecy, recorded in other scrolls. Yes, I see them now. One contains the ancient secrets of the dragons, and the other speaks of the potency of ancient blood.”

****

Dexion closed the scroll and said, “My vision darkens, and I see no more. To know the complete prophecy, we must have the other two scrolls.”

****

That prophecy frightened Skathi. She did live “In an age of strife, when dragons return to the realm of men.” She fought dragons like the Stormcloaks fought the Empire. If prophecy could be so accurate as to predict the coming of Skathi Wolf-Runner, the Dragonborn who slew Alduin the World-Eater, it could very well predict Harkon’s desired ends.

****

“That was,” Harkon remarked, “not as useful as I would have liked. Even so, you did well.”

****

“Do you know where these other scrolls are?” Skathi inquired, knowing where at least one was.

****

“My traitor wife stole one of them away and then disappeared,” he growled at the memory, “As for the other, the last I heard, it was lost in the bowels of a Dwemer ruin. It seems our work is not yet done. But I have waited this long, and we are so close now. I can wait a bit longer.”

****

The entire court heard this and began to discuss many things. Places that a vampire could hide for centuries, Dwemer ruins yet to be fully explored, underlings they could throw away on fools errands, rivals they could finally gain the advantage on with this. Skathi approached none of them, not wanting to owe any of them any loyalty.

****

Instead, Skathi went into the shadows to await Serana. If the lord’s daughter had no desire to earn favor in court, she was the most likely to trust. And if anyone knew where the Elder Scroll her mother stole was, it had to be her. And she did approach Skathi.  
“Do you have a moment to talk?” she asked as though it was embarrassing or shameful.

****

“What's on your mind?” Skathi said with an attempt at fake surprised.

****

Serana winced at the attempt. “That Moth Priest, Dexion,” she stated, “He said we needed two other Elder Scrolls. I think I know where we can start looking.”

****

“Why didn't you say something earlier?” the young vampire asked. She was tempted to know a thing or two about Serana, even if it wasn’t needed.

****

“Didn't want that lot getting wind of it,” she explained, “Especially my father.”

****

Especially? “What is it between you two?” Skathi wondered out loud. Honestly, the question was rhetorical; she could figure any man like Harkon would drive everyone who was ever interested in anything other than his power away.

****

“Ever since he decided to make that prophecy his calling, we kind of drifted apart,” Serana disclosed, “I don't even think he sees me as his daughter anymore. I'm just,” she stopped for a moment to prepare herself to say it, “a means to an end.”

****

Skathi wanted to hug Serana but wondered if she even wanted it.

****

“So, where is this Elder Scroll?” the Dragonborn asked.

****

“We need to find my mother, Valerica,” Serana explained, collecting herself, “She'll definitely know where it is, and if we're lucky, she actually has it herself.”

****

“You said you didn't know where she went,” Skathi noted.

****

"The last time I saw her, she said that she'd go somewhere safe,” the vampire explained, “somewhere that my father would never search. Other than that, she wouldn't tell me anything. But the way she said it, ‘someplace he would never search.’ It was cryptic, yet she called attention to it.”

****

“Sounds like she was being cautious,” the younger vampire remarked, trying to sound wise, but she actually had no clue what that meant.

****

“Maybe. What I can't figure out is why she said it that way,” Serana pondered, “Besides, I can't imagine a single place my father would avoid looking. And he's had all this time, too. Any ideas?”

****

Skathi had a length amount of time hiding from people. It was why she became a wild woman. She knew from experience and common sense what were the best places to hide. She assumed Valerica wouldn’t go to the Dawnguard, as they had only just returned to form, and searching tombs would take too long to find anything. She did have one theory, a mostly terrible idea she would feel silly to suggesting it.

****

“How about right here, in the castle?” she said and immediatedly regretted it.

****

As Serana was midway through rolling her eyes, she looked stunned in realization. “That almost makes sense!” she almost cheered.

****

Skathi was shocked something she thought was so dumb to say was actually helpful. She was almost tempted to say more dumb stuff to see what else was hidden wisdom.

****

* * *

****

When Ravani returned to Mercer, she told him all she knew, including the part about being “Where the end began”. He knew what that meant and told Ravani to meet him in the wastes of Winterhold. There was a ruin there called Snow Veil Sanctum where that was significant. That is where Gallus died, where the end began. Ravani mostly obeyed because she’d likely get paid for this, even if Mercer seemed a little stingy.

****

Back in the tundra of the northmost hold was bittersweet. This is where she escorted recruits to meet the ice wraith in single combat, true, and she saw Fort Kastav, where their commander would constantly make crude jokes about her finally finding a lover. At the same time, she knew she could never return to Fort Kastav’s garrison again. The cold didn’t help matters. The only time Winterhold’s chill helped anyone was making armies rethink invading it.

****

Out in the untamed wastes, she did find a ruin. It looked a tomb, partially in the ground and all. She dismounted from her horse, Faen, and approached the entrance. And there was Mercer, stood there looking colder than the snow itself. Ravani knew how that felt; she was stood in it and swam in it. Winterhold would never be known for being warm.

****

“Good, you're finally here,” Mercer remarked, his voice shivering, “I've scouted the ruins and I'm certain Karliah is still inside.”

****

“You saw her?” Ravani questioned. The idea this man could restrain himself for that long was impossible.

****

“No, I found her horse,” the thief corrected, “Don't worry, I've taken care of it.” He gestured toward the corpse of a horse. Ravani would beat herself up for not noticing it, but the cold both dulled her and dulled the smell; no one notices a corpse unless it starts smelling.

****

“She won't be using it to escape,” Mercer continue with a grin on his face, “Let's get moving, I want to catch her inside while she's distracted. Take the lead.”

****

An odd request. “You want me to lead?” Ravani would’ve thought the leader of an organization would be willing or egotistical enough to take point, but this was the Thieves’ Guild, not the Companions of Jorrvaskr. The difference was the location, the name, and the philosophy, but little else.

****

“I'm sorry,” Mercer snarked, his grin faded, “I was under the impression I was in charge. You're leading and I'm following. Does that seem clear to you?”

****

Ravani nodded. She understood her place as a pin cushion. If there was anything that would kill someone the instant they stepped on the wrong tile or a trip wire neither of them saw, she was going to be the one to die first. If there were draugr in this place, it would be so much worse.

****

“Just make sure you keep your eyes open,” the guild master continued, “Karliah is as sharp as a blade. The last thing I need is you blundering into a trap and warning her that we're here.”

****

She didn’t need to be reminded. However, she was interested in one thing: “How did Gallus die?” However it happened, it might be useful in the extremely near future.

****

“Twenty-five years ago I was standing outside these very same ruins,” Mercer recounted without emotion, “Gallus told me to meet here but he wouldn't say why. When I arrived, Gallus stepped from the shadows. Before he uttered a sound, an arrow pierced his throat. Before I could even draw my blade, her second arrow found its mark in my chest.”

****

An emotionless response can be both a mournful memory and a lie performed by a bad actor. Ravani was deciding which it was. “So, Karliah took on both of you alone?” she noted.

****

Mercer nodded. “Karliah was a master marksman and her greatest weapon was the element of surprise. I was lucky,” he paused, putting a hand to his chest, “she missed my heart by mere inches. I staggered away from the ruins and my vision began to blur. It's then that I realized the bitch had poisoned her arrows.”

****

The motion could be considered a sign of truth if absent minded but could be a ploy if he knew what he was doing. “And Gallus?” Ravani continued.

****

“The last thing I saw was Karliah dumping his body into an opening atop the ruins,” Mercer was quick to say, “an unceremonious end for a remarkable man. To this day I've regretted allowing her to escape, even if it meant I had died trying. I owed Gallus that much.” His voice dripped with spite at the words.

****

Mercer’s vile was true as the sun in the morning, but Ravani wasn’t certain he was ever in mourning. “What happened after Gallus died?”

****

“The Guild was thrown into disarray,” he stated, “Several stepped up and tried to Gallus' former position as Guild Master. Sides quickly formed behind these men and the Ratway became a bloodbath.”

****

The part Mercer was least likely to lie about was the part Ravani was certain wasn’t fabricated. Still, she’d ask someone about this. “And you were a part of this?”

****

The guild master nodded. “I saw what they did to Gallus,” he recounted, “I wanted to use the Guild's resources to hunt down Karliah. The others didn't even care he was gone. Fortunately, I persevered, and the other groups were either killed or they left Skyrim.”  
That explained what happened to the guild. But if groups were killed, she wanted to know if he did any of the killing. “And what of Karliah?”

****

“The infighting had taken months to subside which gave her time to go into hiding and carefully cover her tracks. I spent thousands of septims and used every contact at my disposal, but it was as if she had simply vanished,” he paused, as though in remembrance of something, “like I said before, she was the best.”

****

Ravani wasn’t certain Mercer was telling the full truth. He was a thief, so he could also be a liar. She knew she could be if the situation demanded. However, she wanted to know the truth before saying anything. She knew there had to be, but not what he was hiding. If only Men were as easy to tell they were lying as Argonians.

****

Mercer approached the intricate door to the sanctum. “They say these ancient Nordic burial mounds are sometimes impenetrable,” he remarked, “This one doesn't look too difficult. Quite simple really, I don't know what the fuss is about these locks. All it takes is a bit of know-how and a lot of skill.”

****

He pressed around the door, but Ravani saw as he put what seemed like a key into a hole in the stone. The entire craftsmanship operated as though something missing was there.  
“That should do it. After you.”

****

Ravani moved into the tomb, blades in hand. Her dagger was forward, her sword was backward. Should Mercer try to stab her in the back, she might be able to stab him first. Hopefully.

****

* * *

****

As it turned out, Skathi had no clue how accurate she was. Valerica had a garden in the castle her husband would never go, for it was far too peaceful for his liking. Like a villain in a storybook, that was. The garden was mostly for alchemy ingredients, but it was apparently a lovely place just to spend time in. Skathi knew places like that. She never lingered there.

****

The garden wasn’t an easy place to get to. The way was barred, probably Harkon’s attempt to remove any memory of his wife from his mind. That resulted in an entire wing being abandoned, one that you had to enter through the unused docks. In was a difficult to make it through the catacombs, but not impossible; they just needed to slay the undead and the odd gargoyle.

****

Skathi and Serana would eventually come upon Valerica’s garden. The novice vampire supposed it looked beautiful in its day, but it didn’t today. The trees lack their leaves in the branches as well as in their shadow. The bushes were just as bare and looked as though their dead forms were left to the garden’s detriment. The grass and some flowers were still alive, but they were the exception to the rule.

****

Serana was in grief at this sight. “I used to walk through here after evening meals,” she recounted, “It was beautiful, once. This was my mother's garden. It,” she paused to try to keep from crying, “do you know how beautiful something can be when it's tended by a master for hundreds of years? She would have hated to see it like this.”

****

Skathi guided her senior to a bench by the side. She decided that maybe some talking may help. “You seemed to know your what around those catacombs,” she remarked, “Did you spend a lot of time down there?”

****

Serana collected herself to think back. “I like to explore,” she shrugged, “My parents almost never let me off the island, so yeah, I poked around down here a lot.” She looked into nowhere in particular. “It was a little quieter back then. Guess a little vampire girl was enough to scare off the rats.” She finished that with a smirk.

****

To Skathi, it was reminiscent of her time in wild. “That sounds pretty lonely,” she noted. Every once and a while, the solitude would get to her and she lost the ability to cope.

****

“It was,” Serana nodded, “But I got used to it.”

****

Skathi wasn’t sure what else to talk about that was wise to bring up. “Do you still feel lonely?” she asked.

****

The senior vampire tilted her head for a spell. “A little bit. That's,” Serana started before warily continuing, “one of the reasons I wanted to come with you.”

****

That was something the Dragon of the North wasn’t sure how to take that. She hadn’t had that many people want to be around her for such reasons. Rena wanted to help her on her quest, the Greybeards and Blades wanted her to fully realize who she was as Dragonborn, Agata was her sister estranged for twelve years. No one wanted to be with her because they were lonely.

****

“But what about you?” Serana asked.

****

Skathi was taken off guard by that. “What about me?” she responded, feeling some heat on her cheeks.

****

“Do you get lonely? Are there,” the vampire stopped, seemingly to pick the right words, “people in your life?”

****

Skathi wanted to pick her words right. “I try not to rely on others,” she said, trying her best to hide who Agata was to her.

****

“Does it bother you that I'm here?” the vampire asked, looking as though she didn’t want to hurt her.

****

“No,” Skathi was quick to say, “I’ve been alone too long.”

****

Serana had herself a little smirk. The Dragonborn had no clue what it meant.

****

The senior vampire looked around the garden and turned her focus to its center. There was a strange device there, made of some golden material. It looked a lot like a sundial, but the times of day were marked with reflective decorations made to reflect the phases of the moon. Skathi had never before encountered such a device, she was sure of that.

****

“Something's wrong with the moondial here,” Serana noted, getting up and approaching the device, “Some of the crests are missing and the dial is askew. I didn't even know the crests could be removed. Maybe my mother's trying to tell us something?”

****

Knowing the now obvious purpose of the device, Skathi looked around for the garden for these crests. The missing ones didn’t seem to have any relationship to each other. She looked high and low before find them, depictions of a crescent moon, a half-moon, and a full moon. She went to the dial and placed them in what she felt was their appropriate places.

****

When the last crest was placed, the ground shook. Skathi recoiled to behold the stone floor around it giving way by craftsmen’s design. It fell into steps to bellow the moondial. Of course, no normal person doesn’t have secret passageways!

****

“Very clever, mother. Very clever,” Serana remarked, “I've never been in those tunnels before, but I'd bet they run right under the courtyard and into the tower ruins. Well, at least we're getting closer. Let's go.”

****

They passed through more catacombs left unoccupied by anyone but undead and gargoyles. The two vampires could handle themselves well enough. Skathi had gotten plenty of practice with her sword arm, and Serana was crafty with a knife if anyone got past her magics. It wasn’t too long before they fought their way through the ruins.

****

At the end of all this, the vampires found themselves in what appeared to be a study. Skathi only knew of such things from her time at the Thalmor embassy and the lodging of a court wizard. Not only did it have bookshelves with a lot of reading material, but it also had an alchemy table with numerous materials you could probably use on it around it. At the center was a design of circle going deeper and deeper in the ground.

****

Skathi wasn’t certain when this would end, but it was certainly beginning again.

****

* * *

****

As Ravani and Mercer descended into the sanctum, it was clear Karliah was here. If not her, than someone had killed draugr and left the bodies strewn about the floor. Funny thing though, the traps still worked. Mercer supposed that Karliah had reset them, but Ravani figure she likely didn’t trigger that many. If she was skilled enough as Mercer said, then she could surely avoid trip wires and pressure plates.

****

Of course, if someone has the skill to avoid ancient Nord booby traps meant for grave robbers, they can sneak past the sleeping dead. There were still draugr ready to fight them, as the thieves discovered when they rose from their sarcophagi to fight them. It was fortunate Mercer brought a sword with a flame enchantment or else things would be woefully one sided.

****

There were a very many draugr through their path. While Ravani and Mercer would occasionally get the advantage on them, they were thieves, no warriors. This wasn’t their calling. Neither were shabby in a fight, but then neither did they have a desire to. Well, at least Ravani didn’t; no clue about Mercer. He was likely here for revenge, but Ravani didn’t wanna say anything.

****

And because she didn’t wanna say anything, she kept Mercer at within her notice. She couldn’t gage if Mercer were telling the truth or not, especially since there was a possibility. He could very well stab him in the back, or worse. Things could go wrong, and he could easily throw her under the bridge for it. It was like some invisible sword was hovering over her head and she had no clue who would cut it down.

****

Eventually, they came upon a door Ravani was certain they couldn’t get through. There were symbols depicting numerous animals over a plate with indentation of a three-pronged claw. Above the claws were three holes. Ravani could identify that this was some sort of puzzle, one they weren’t equipped to solve. Given some time, Ravani figured she could think of something, but the situation lacked the patience for this.

****

“Ah, one of the infamous Nord puzzle doors,” Mercer remarked, taking a good long look at it, “How quant. Without the matching claw, they’re impossible to open. Since I’m certain Karliah already did away with it, we’re on our own.”

****

Ravani was annoyed with that. She already knew it was a bad situation, but essentially saying to try would be useless is in fact useless. They could figure out something!

****

“Fortunately,” Mercer continued, “these doors have a weakness if you know how to exploited it. Quite simple, really.”

****

And just like that, the door was open. Ravani checked Mercer’s hands and she did see some sort of key go into one of his pockets. At this point, she was certain he had a magic key, just not where it came from and it’s full capabilities. She would very much like to steal that but trying to steal from an experienced thief is practically suicide. The perfect opportunity wouldn’t just happen; they would have to be more engineered than a Dwemer construct.

****

“Karliah’s close, I’m certain of it,” Mercer stated, “Now, let’s get moving.”

****

Not a foot through the door before something struck Ravani, but the pain of its presence was quickly gone. She looked down to where the memory of that pain led her and found an arrow sticking out of her chest. Considering the lack of feeling, she was either dying or paralyzed. When she fell, she didn’t lose consciousness, so she had to assume she was perfectly fine, just lacking any ability to move.

****

Mercer walked around Ravani’s limp body, she could feel his footsteps, and approached figure at the edge of shadow. Said figure had a bow in hand with a fresh arrow drawn. The fact his didn’t have his sword drawn was confusion. This figure could only be Karliah; a draugr doesn’t wield poisons and there the murderer was through here. What reason could Mercer have? Especially since this was a roundabout way of meeting each other if the two were in cahoots.

****

“Do you honestly think your arrow will reach me before my blade finds your heart?” Mercer asked.

****

“Give me a reason to try,” the figure, voice as quiet as a child, dared. She pulled the bowstring back.

****

“You're a clever girl, Karliah,” Mercer chuckled, “Buying Goldenglow Estate and funding Honningbrew Meadery was inspired.”

****

“To ensure an enemy's defeat, you must first undermine his allies,” Karliah stated, easing the tension on the bow, “It was the first lesson Gallus taught us.”

****

“You always were a quick study,” Mercer remarked. Why was he talking to the enemy? She was acting more like she’d lost Gallus than Mercer did. Unless she did.

****

“Not quick enough, otherwise Gallus would still be alive.”

****

So, that was it then. Ravani knew he was lying, just not about what. Mercer killed Gallus and lied to everyone else that Karliah was the killer. He did all of this for power and wealth. In all honesty, Ravani should’ve expected nothing less from a thief, but the way he went on about rules, she assumed he was the bloody Jarl. Well, maybe not the Jarl of the Rift, but a Jarl.

****

“Gallus had his wealth and he had you,” Mercer spat, “All he had to do was look the other way.”

****

“Did you forget your oath we took as Nightingales?” Karliah questioned, “Did you expect him to simply ignore your methods?”

****

Nightingales? Ravani wondered what she meant by that. Surely, she didn’t mean birds, neither could she possibly mean the other alternative. Rumor had it that thieves with the blessing of Nocturnal, the Night Mistress, but they couldn’t possibly exist. They couldn’t.

****

“Enough of all this mindless banter!” Mercer declared, drawing his blade, “Come on, Karliah. It's time for you and Gallus to become reunited!”

****

And without even a movement of her hands, Karliah disappeared. “I'm no fool, Mercer,” her voice stated, “Crossing blades with you would be a death sentence. But I can promise the next time we meet, it will be your undoing.”

****

With Karliah gone, there were only two people in the room. One was Mercer, the other was a paralyze Ravani. And she heard every word of it. Mercer knew that; he had to, or else he still had his sword out for little reason. And when he approached the limp thief, she knew what would happen. She was going to die. No matter what he was going to do between then and now, she was going to die.

****

“How interesting,” Mercer remarked as he grew closer to Ravani, “It appears Gallus' history has repeated itself. Karliah has provided me with the means to be rid of you, and this ancient tomb becomes your final resting place. But do you know what intrigues me the most? The fact that this was all possible because of you.”

****

Crouched over the paralyzed thief, Mercer simply said, “Farewell. I'll be certain to give Brynjolf your regards.”

****

And his blade cut across Ravani. Of course, she had to believe her eyes on that because she could feel the sword pierce her flesh. This is not how she wanted to die. In fact, she didn’t want to die at all. But there was a simple fact to lie: If you can die, you will. And so, she embraced the emptiness.

****


	14. Chapter 14

Skathi and Serana turned Valerica’s laboratory over, looking for some sort of clue. There was a library where they could find plenty of information, but it was useless if. Judging by her books, she could be with the Psijic Order, Dawnstar, in the Crystal Tower of the Summerset Isles, deep within the ruins of Kemel-Ze, within an incredibly tolerant Orc stronghold, hid in a Whispmother’s den, among the Companions of Jorrvaskr, or in the company of a lust Argonian maid. Such strange reading tastes.

Eventually, Skathi came up a book with no title. The leather cover was that of a journeyman’s journal instead of a scholar’s tome. She knew from the very first word that this was Valerica’s, as it was “Harkon”.

“I've found your mother's notes.,” Skathi reported, walking over to Serana as she was checking to find well preserved books.

“You did? Let me see them,” the vampire turned away from her task to read the book with Skathi.

How close Serana stood to the Dragonborn tensed the senior vampire. She seemed perfectly fine on her own, but she shrank a few inches even half an arm away from Skathi. Whether this made Skathi special she couldn’t say, but she did note how Serana was rarely ever at arm’s length of anyone. Skathi wondered if herself was like this since she never thought about it like that.

Eventually, they came a passage mentioning where Valerica would hide, “What's this ‘Soul Cairn’ that she mentions?” Skathi asked.

Serana stepped back like the Dragonborn spoke too loudly. “I only know what she told me,” the vampire admitted, “She had a theory about soul gems. That the souls inside of them don't just vanish when they're used, they end up in the Soul Cairn.”

Skathi never considered a soul gem much. Granted, hunters that soul trapped animals had more profits than mere poachers, but it seemed an unneeded complication. Granted, without soul gems, there wouldn’t be enchantments on things. Black soul gems though turned her stomach, as they should. The soul of a Man, Mer or Beastfolk was more powerful than any mere animal or monster, so they needed more powerful soul gems, ones that had a certain stigma on them. Why? Well, that’s a person’s soul you stole; what else did you expect would happen?

“Why did she care where used souls went?” Skathi asked, softening her voice on the assumption it was her being too loud.

“The Soul Cairn is home to very powerful beings,” Serana explained. “Necromancers send them souls and receive powers of their own in return. My mother spent a lot of time trying to contact them directly, to travel to the Soul Cairn itself.” She didn’t seem to react badly to the lowered voice.

“If she made it there, we'll find her,” the Dragonborn suggested. She didn’t know how to get there, but she was riding the high of catching something.

Serana looked upon the design on the floor. “That circle in the center of the room is definitely some type of portal,” she speculated, “If I'm reading this right, there's a formula here that should give us safe passage into the Soul Cairn.”

Well, that made Skathi feel less stupid. “What do we need?”

Serana took the journal and read off what she saw. “A handful of soul gem shards, some finely-ground bone meal, a good bit of purified void salts.” She stopped and looked on the page with a frustrated gaze, “Oh, damn it.”

“What's wrong?”

“We're also going to need a sample of her blood. Which,” Serana trailed off. If they could get their hands of that, they wouldn’t be doing any of this.

And that would be that. They couldn’t get their hands on that last Elder Scroll and Harkon’s schemes couldn’t be fulfilled. But at the same time, he wouldn’t stop trying. If this, which occupied his time for centuries, maybe millennia, became impossible, what he would do to Skyrim was too unpredictable to think about. But then Skathi remembered something her sister told her so long ago.

“We’re family. Family is blood.”

“You share her blood,” Skathi noted.

Serana thought on it a moment. “Hmmm. Not bad,” she remarked, “We'd better hope that's good enough. Mistakes with these kinds of portals can be,” she paused, “gruesome. Anyway, enough of that. Let's get started.”

Skathi hoped that wouldn’t happen. “Are all of those ingredients here?” she asked.

“Oh, definitely,” the vampire nodded, “Mother would have plenty of those materials in her laboratory, you just need to find them.”

Never was Skathi ever an alchemist if you’ll remember. She couldn’t quite figure out how to do it right, resulting in her being banned from Arcadia’s lab for lacing the entire workplace with poisonous nightshade. At best, she could identify herbs and materials from their taste, but void salt was new to her. She would do her best still.

She searched over the pick and mix of ingredients around the study for what she could recognize. There were dusts of many colors, but the one’s she was interested in was yellowish white. There were two bowls of the material, one of common pottery and the other of iron metalwork. They tasted the same bitter taste, but the one from the metal bowl was a fine powder, not the salt-like substance in the pottery. This was definitely the bone meal she needed.

After she took the bone meal, Skathi looked around for the other two ingredients. She found another metal bowl, but this had a purplish material like gravel. It was transparent like stained glass but had a discomfort at the touch that went beyond physical, but spiritual. If there was any doubt these were the soul gem shards that she needed, she would put the faith in those disbelievers.

Lastly was the purified void salts. She was sure what a void salt was, nor did she know how they could be purified. She searched around until she found another metal bowl, one that held a salt-like substance that was as black as both vampire’s hair. At the taste, it was clear it was salt, but made Skathi’s skin feel like being touched could send her flying. Well, more than usual. A nod from Serana and she was certain this was what they needed.

“Get the ingredients in the vessel and let me know when you're ready,” Serana said holding a knife. She was going through with this.

After Skathi put a vessel at the center of the lab, Serana noted, “Then the rest is up to me. Are you ready to go? I'm not entirely sure what this thing is going to do when I add my blood."

“Can I ask you something first?” Skathi asked. It was a question that she couldn’t shake since they entered the catacombs.

“Of course. What is it?” Serana replied.

“What will you do if we find your mother?”

The vampire sighed. “I've been asking myself the same thing since we came back to the castle,” she admitted, “She was so sure of what we did to my father, I couldn't help but go along with her. I never thought of the cost.”

Skathi wasn’t sure where this conflict came from. “It sounds like she did everything for your sake,” she remarked.

“Possibly,” Serana noted, “I guess even a vampire mother is still a mother. She worried about me. About all of us. But she wanted to get me as far away from my father as possible before he really went over the edge.”

“We won't know until we find her.”

Serana nodded. "Yes, yes, you're right. I'm sorry. I just didn't expect anyone to care how I felt about her. Thank you. Are we ready then?”

Skathi nodded back. “Let's get that portal open.”

Serana braced herself as she held the knife under her palm. “All right. Here goes.”

She cut her skin and the blood fell into the vessel. As it mixed with the ingredients, an invisible fire melted them into an inky substance you wouldn’t put your hand in. As it boiled, the circle design sunk into the ground and broke apart to reveal a void of purple with crackling lightning of the same color bursting out. The remaining stone formed a makeshift staircase into the void, but where it ended was beyond their sight.

“By the blood of my ancestors,” Serana muttered, “She actually did it. Created a portal to the Soul Cairn. Incredible.” She turned to Skathi and said, “I'm ready when you are,” a warry expression on her face.

Skathi drew her bow and descended into what could only be a gateway into the Soul Cairn. Divine preserve them, such as they were.

* * *

It was late when Agata returned to Fort Dawnguard. She rode strong from dawn to dusk to reach the fort, even past the sunset, even with Bran draped on Kili’s back. The want to be safe was strong.

All the while, Agata relived the events of Forebearers’ Holdout in her head. She was so close to killing Skathi and she could’ve done it there and then, but she chose to run. She was a coward to herself, even if she stayed off Molag Bal’s prophecy for now. She let her comrades die because she didn’t want to kill her only family left. For the sake of Skyrim, she cursed herself, let that sentimentality not get in the way again.

After she dismounted and entered the fort, she let Bran run to his kennel and snuck herself as best she could to get to the barracks. She didn’t want to be confronted by Isran when she was tired, cold, and hungry. If she could get some stew and some time to sleep in a warm blanket, she could figure out how best to explain the events of the patrol.

“Wolf-Runner!” Isran barked from his quarters, “Report!”

Agata was shocked, wondering how exactly he did that. Never mind, she would need to figure out her report now. As she climbed the stairs, she remembered how hard it was. She knew everything but it might be hard to explain it all and still be respected. She was a coward, a deserter, a little girl that played a soldier until someone drew a sword.

On the cusp of Isran’s quarters, she hoped he wouldn’t repeat what was already going on in her head. He was rough with everyone to the point those who knew him didn’t join the Dawnguard because of him; they joined because of a threat that went beyond personal feelings. That sort of person wasn’t to be sought out for their understanding.

Upon entering, Isran was stood with his undisturbed bedding behind him. Considering how late it was, the question of whether he slept or not natural found its way into Agata’s head.

“You’ve returned alone,” the guild leader asked, “What happened?”

The poor Nord calmed her nerves as best she could, even if it weren’t much. “We were wiped out,” she explained, “The vampires have the Moth Priest.”

Isran’s crossed arms became firmly held in place by himself. “Dammit,” he muttered, “I should’ve kept them in training longer.”

Agata knew that wasn’t the issue. The Dawnguards’ numbers were few to the point that six scouts in the nine holds left only a handful to keep the fort. Their training was fine enough to cut down the vampires at Forebearers’ Holdout; it wasn’t their fault they died.

“What happened?” Isran inquired.

Again, Agata collected herself to give that report. “We tracked the vampires had taken the Moth Priest,” she explained, “We tracked them to a cave, where they were slain without a single casualty on our end.”

The guild leader raised an eyebrow incredulously. “Then how did they die?” he asked.

The poor Nord did her best not to let herself cry. “We should’ve gotten him out,” she continued, “had Skathi not taken us from behind.”

Isran’s ever-present frown deepened. “It’s bad enough the Dragonborn left us to become a vampire,” he nearly growled, “Now, she’s actively working against us. If you ever spot her again, kill her. Dismissed.”

It wasn’t any chewing out that broke Agata. She ran from Isran’s quarters in tears because it was becoming quite clear she would lose her family. Molag Bal’s prophecy was becoming common sense and her superior’s orders. The only thing she couldn’t justify was the fact they were still sisters. She didn’t know who Skathi was, not really; they had been separated for around twelve years. But you can’t tell her to look at her sister’s face and say that was the face of her enemy.

She ran and hid somewhere she’d never been in the fort’s north wing. She found some corner and started crying. When she thought it was over, she just started crying again. So long had it been that she cried in grief. Maybe if she let it all out now, she would get used to the idea of Skathi dead and accept when she took her sister’s life. But that inspired more tears, not some solemn resolve.

“Excuse me,” a familiar voice asked, “are you alright?”

Agata looked up and saw Sorine. “I’m fine,” the poor Nord assured, “I’m fine.”

The Breton stood her comrade up to see that this wasn’t some abandoned corner of the fort; this was Sorine and Gunmar’s workplace. She could see a wooden pen with what sounded like troll bellowing in the background. She had heard Gunmar had a knack for taming whatever he wanted; she just didn’t think they meant trolls.

“What are you doing up so late?” Agata asked, “It’s hours past nightfall.”

They looked surprised. “Wow, they should really have built windows in this place,” Gunmar remarked.

Before Agata could agree, she felt a gentle poke at her hand. It was Bran, whining to his partner. He didn’t seem like he wanted food. Instead, he was concerned for the tears in Agata’s eyes. The poor Nord started petting and scratching the husky, almost reassuring him and herself that things were okay. Not great, good, bad, or terrible; everything was just okay.

“Do you have a moment?” Sorine softly interrupted, “Gunmar and I have been talking and, well, we're slightly worried. We both realized that if Isran's even allowed us in here, he must be really concerned. And if he's that concerned, the situation may be pretty bad. Make sense?”

Agata kept her hand on Bran’s head as those who knew their paranoid leader best “You're worried about what we're up against?” she asked.

The Breton nodded. “These vampires are a new threat, and a truly deadly one,” she explained, “Gunmar and I agree that we're going to need Florentius to help. Gunmar and I have a lot of work to do here, so we were hoping that maybe you could track him down.”

It was good that these two were showing dedication, but “Who is Florentius?” Agata asked.

“He's a priest of Arkay. Well, he was. It's” Sorine sighed, frustrated at trying to explain this, “it's complicated. He's a little eccentric, but we can trust him, and we could definitely use his skills.”

An eccentric priest? Either of those things conjured certain ideas in your head, but both was an interesting combination. That didn’t mean it was good or bad, but it could be either. To Agata, this felt like they were trying to skirt around the issue of him enjoying the company of men over women. She could be wrong, but that was her working theory.

“Where can I find him?” she asked, sighing at their awkwardness.

Sorine frowned at the noise. “Well, that's the thing,” she admitted, “We don't know where he is. Haven't seen him in years. I think he had regular contact with the Vigilants, and I know Isran kept track of them,” she shrugged, realizing it seemed ridiculous to ask Isran for a favor he probably didn’t want, “So maybe you could ask Isran if he knows anything? Just keep in mind that he, well, he might not like the idea.”

“Alright,” Agata agreed, “but let me sleep first.”

They did and Agata left to the barracks. She found sleep hard, maybe because Bran was laid on her torso, maybe because of the week’s events. But she did find the husky’s presence a comfort eventually and found what sleep she could with what state she was in.

* * *

The Soul Cairn was a strange place beyond Skathi’s own imagination. The sands before them were littered with blackened ruins that she couldn’t be sure were ever whole. Trees that may never have been alive hunched across the dead plains. The skies were a storm of blue and purple light, the gray cloud descending on the ruins to hide what creature may, as inappropriate as these words may be, alive there.

But there’s a difference between what you see and what you feel. Skathi couldn’t help but feel uneased. The very air was foul, and she could accuse it without defense for trying to kill her. What skin was exposed to these unknown elements felt aflame and frozen at the same time. The smell all too familiar to Skathi: the open gut of a freshly killed human.

“I'd heard stories about the Soul Cairn,” Serana remarked, “but never thought I'd see it myself. So far, it's about what I imagined.”

Skathi knew this was an unfamiliar hunting ground, incredibly so. If she were to find her quarry in this strange territory, she would have to know this land better than she could. She would need a guide, and the closest one she had was Serana.  
“Do you know anything about this place?” Skathi asked.

“Just what my mother told me,” the senior vampire explained, “I've also studied a little bit on my own, but there's not much. When something is trapped in a soul gem, and then the energy is used for powering an enchantment, the remnants are sent here.”

“Any soul gem?” the Dragonborn asked.

Soul gems were something Skathi never thought about. They were something hunters brought in with their pelts and fresh meat to sell in her parents’ store and sold to whatever mages would pass through town. All she knew personally about the varieties was their costs, and that her parents always brought the guards in when someone tried to sell them a black one. Those, of course, were filled with the souls of people, not animals.

“Well, I think it's specifically the black ones,” Serana replied, not soothing Skathi’s nerves about this, “I don't know if the Soul Cairn takes just any leftovers.”

Skathi looked out on the planes. “Does anything live here?” she asked, fiddling with her knife.

Serana rolled her eyes. “Look at this place,” she snarked, “Do you think anything would want to live here? The only things that can survive here are the Ideal Masters, the undead and the souls themselves. Well, if you want to call that ‘living.’”

Hardly comforting. “Do you think we'll meet the Ideal Masters?” Skathi wondered.

The vampire shrugged. “I don't think anyone's ever met the Ideal Masters,” she doubted, “I'm not even sure anyone knows what they look like. They could be underground, flying above us,” she looked toward the crackling sky, “They might be the ground. I have no idea.”

“Why are they collecting these souls?” At this point, Skathi just asked to be safe, rather than genuine curiosity. Wait, it was all just to be safe.

“Lots of theories,” Serana explained, “Some say they feed on them like I feed on blood. Others think they use them as payment to an even higher power, almost like a currency. A very strange currency. Whatever they're doing with them, they've been harvesting for millennia. No telling how many souls are trapped here.”

The change in the vampire’s mannerism were subtle enough that Skathi was surprised she noticed them. It wasn’t that she was happy to say any of this, but she did seem far more comfortable saying it. It was like talking about such macabre things was just a thing to her. Skathi didn’t think of this as a bad thing or that she lack any morality; she was just reminded of her own expositing when she was a child. Not that Serana was a child, but that she was reminiscent of when Skathi had someone to talk to.

“Why would a necromancer want to deal with them?” the Dragonborn asked.

Serana gesticulated to draw attention to the wasteland. “Look around you,” the vampire stated, “There are some extremely powerful undead here. Even a necromancer as seasoned as my mother would be willing to spend years trying to gain access to them."

“Summon them you mean?”

The vampire nodded. “Exactly. It's a lost art,” she said with a small smile, “Most necromancers just raise up whatever bodies are nearby. A simple trick, really. Child's play. But bringing something from the Soul Cairn gives you something much more powerful.”

“How do the necromancers communicate with them?”

“Well, that's usually the trick,” Serana continued, “It's possible to do it through a simple portal. But to finalize the deal, you have to travel here yourself, and most of them never come back.”

At that point, Skathi was tired of hearing about the topic, despite the simple pleasure it gave Serana to talk about it. She felt she had everything she could possibly know from the vampire about the dangers of this place, along with some irrelevant material. If they were going to move out, there was no point to prolonging their travels.

The first step Skathi took on the Soul Cairn’s sands, she was certain it wasn’t that. The grains were wrong for it to be that, as well as the color, even in this lighting. At the taste, this was unmistakably bone meal. As macabre as that was, she was glad she didn’t eat sand. A small consolation for the horror of this place.

Walking through the narrow path, she was the occupants of the forests. They were black skeletons, aflame, but not burnt. Their flame was blue, but their bone’s color was like the void you see when you close your eyes. These creatures were nightmares made fleshless.

Such a cheerful start to their travels in the Soul Cairn, to know those unliving here didn’t worry about blankets.

* * *

To begin with, Ravani felt like shit. Completely. She didn’t subscribe to the Dunmeri pantheon or any other god, so she supposed if she opened her eyes, there would be some horrible plane of Oblivion some Daedric Prince decided to whisk her to. Or she was just in Aetherius, like most every mortal upon death. That would explain why she felt like shit; the Divine suddenly gave one about her.

When she opened her eyes, she was laying under a starless sky. She felt a snow underneath her and the smell of horker and rotting dead horse filled the air. Her first thought was that she was just that unlucky to end up in the one plane of Oblivion that was exactly like Skyrim to await the ending of all things. Or she was still alive. That was far less terrifying, all things considered.

The revelation that she may still be alive made her shoot up, even though she still felt like shit. Her misguided efforts were halted by a hand to her arm keeping her still. Ravani looked to the source of the hand and found a hooded Dunmer in leathers with violet eyes. Every Dunmer Ravani had ever met had red or pitch-black eyes, not violet. And it was a genetic trait that did this; it was a curse across their race. Who was this?

“Easy, easy,” the violet-eyed Dunmer begged, “Don't get up so quickly. How are you feeling?”

It took a moment to recognize her voice, but when it did, Ravani’s distrust was instant. “Hold on,” she remarked, “you shot me!”

“No, I saved your life,” Karliah was quick to say, “My arrow was tipped with a unique paralytic poison. It slowed your heart and kept you from bleeding out. Had I intended to kill you, we wouldn't be having this conversation.”

Perhaps that was true. Though even if the arrow didn’t kill her, Mercer would. “Why save me?” Ravani questioned.

“My original intention was to use that arrow on Mercer,” Karliah explained, “but I never had a clear shot. I made a split-second decision to get you out of the way and it prevented your death.”

The idea of that was pretty stupid. “You should have shot Mercer instead,” Ravani snarked. If she wanted to take out Mercer, don’t waste the special arrow on the unimportant one.

“I promise you, the thought crossed my mind,” the archer retorted, “The poison on that arrow took me a year to perfect; I only had enough for a single shot. All I had hoped was to capture Mercer alive.”

More stupidity. “Why capture Mercer alive?” Ravani questioned. If he were a murderer and opportunist to the guild’s woes, surely killing him would be the most efficient way to deal with him.

“Mercer must be brought before the Guild to answer for what he's done,” Karliah claimed, “He needs to pay for Gallus's murder.”

Undoubtably, Karliah’s moral fiber was different from most thieves, and dumber. She believed that under pressure of his peers, he would confess. The naivety would be funny if it wasn’t such a serious issue. Did she really not consider Mercer wouldn’t lie? How did this moron survive as a thief, let alone on the run for decades?

“How will you prove it now?” Ravani asked with no small amount of snark.

Karliah surely noticed that. “My purpose in using Snow Veil Sanctum to ambush Mercer wasn't simply for irony's sake,” she stated, “Before both of you arrived, I recovered a journal from Gallus's remains. I suspect the information we need is written inside.” She took out an old book with a strange symbol on it.

A book of that age, if it hadn’t gone moldy, would prove much more than the word of a liar. “Well, what's it say?”

Karliah hid her lips in embarrassment. “I wish I knew,” she admitted, “The journal is written in some sort of language I've never seen before.”

Ravani herself checked the book to see if she knew it. She knew a bit of ancient Nord and a few Elven words, so maybe she’d be able to identify it. Sure enough, she overestimated her ability. It wasn’t even in the same written text as any language she’d seen. She tried to see if she remembered something, but it was about as unintelligible as Old Hag Manse.

“Perhaps it could be translated,” Ravani suggested. She had no clue who would even be able to read this.

“Enthir,” Karliah noted, “Gallus's friend at the College of Winterhold. Of course,” she paused, as though she had gone through revelation, “he’s the only outsider Gallus trusted with the knowledge of his Nightingale identity.”

“There's that word again, ‘Nightingale,’” Ravani snapped. They kept throwing that word around, but she was certain they weren’t birds and the Nightingale thieves didn’t actually exist.

Karliah sighed. “There were three of us,” she stated, “Myself, Gallus, and Mercer. We were an anonymous splinter of the Thieves Guild in Riften.”

Ravani didn’t want to believe it. The Nightingales had to be a myth. The gods didn’t care what anyone did day to day; only if they could advance their own agendas would they descend about Tamriel. To think even the Night Mistress would even care about such thieves was unbelievable. No god cared that much, not for thieves.

“Perhaps I'll tell you more about it later,” Karliah continued, perhaps noticing Ravani’s incredulity, “Right now, you need to head for Winterhold with the journal and get the translation. Here, take these as well, they may prove useful for your journey.”

The veteran thief handed her kinswoman a few vials. Poisons. One Ravani could identify as one that would bring a cold and drowsy haze upon its victim. Another was a simple poison, but incredibly weak from the size of it. The last would disrupt one’s magicka enough to hinder their use of spells. They were fine poisons, and Ravani believed her fellow Dunmer would carry them, but there was one more thing she wanted to ask.

“Why are your eyes violet?”

Karliah looked embarrassed by the question. “I don’t know,” she admitted, “They’ve been that way for as long as I remember. My mother had red eyes, definitely not my father. Everyone talked about them, but I could never answer why. I just don’t know.”

That was fair. A lack of knowledge isn’t something to blame on anyone, but it was still pretty significant. The only Dunmer she ever met who didn’t have red eyes and pitch-black eyes, and the only one who didn’t have either of those were blind. How this could happen was something Ravani wanted to know, if only because that might mean the curse was being lifted. The sooner the better, in her opinion.

Ravani went looking for where she left her horse, knowing not tying it down was foolish. However, she didn’t expect it to be dead. Mercer likely killed it.

“Faen!” Ravani gasped.

That caught the attention of Karliah, who was headed for the road. “Sorry for your loss,” she remarked, “Mercer took the same measure as he did with mine.”

Ravani cursed Mercer Frey’s name. Did he know how hard it was to save up for a horse just to call it the ancient Nord word for “fuck”? He would pay with his life for this!


	15. Chapter 15

“Voada, you spilled laundry water in the soup pot again!” Anton shouted across the kitchen, “Do I need to cut off your fingers to teach you a lesson?”

Before the girl could respond, her older brother stood between them. “You touch her,” Rondach growled, “and I swear it'll be your fingers that go missing, you stupid Breton!”

Anton couldn’t believe this. “What was that?" he questioned. He was the chef of Understone Keep, Rondach was only a boy.

“Now, now, brother,” Voada stepped back in and turned back to Anton, “Rondach was just being his usual gloomy self, he didn't mean it, did you Rondach? You're just being silly again.”

Rondach said nothing, just stood there, grumbling. It was clear Rondach wouldn’t apologize for harboring an incompetent cow. “Whatever,” Anton seethed, “Just get back to work. Now.”

And so, they all went back to work. It was going to be lunchtime soon enough and Understone keep must be fed. He tossed the Potage le Magnifique before getting back to work. While Anton knew every chef found a way of corrupting the soup to their own cooking style, he was certain laundry water wasn’t one of them. The only reason he asked for water on the soup was because the Potage wouldn’t reduce.

The Potage le Magnifique was a soup whose recipe was found in the popular cookbook Uncommon Taste. It was written by a mysterious person called The Gourmet, whose gender and even species was unknown to the world. Despite any clue to his identity, the book reached acclaim in chefs across the Empire. The Potage one of the more popular recipes among chefs, and rumor had it that communities would band together to make it when they could.

Of course, the mystery of who The Gourmet was wasn’t one to Anton. He knew the Gourmet as Balagog, an Orc that ran away from his stronghold to see the world. And they were good friends, him having taken up board with Anton’s family years ago in High Rock. Both picked up a passion for cooking, but Balagog’s ambition led him to more success, even if it meant stealing some recipes. The Potage, for one, was adaption from Anton’s mother’s stew. But still, they barred no ill will, and Anton even had a signed copy of Uncommon Taste, though it meant missing of late.

Friendship between a Breton and an Orc was uncommon. Orcs were often seen as barbarians, but the fact their sole city of Orsinium was constantly sacked by its neighbors as a political power play was likely part of why they couldn’t rise above the state of nomads and tribes. Anton, for one, believe the Orcs should be uplifted by their state and brought into civilization like the Bretons. If the Bretons could rise from the bastards of Elves to the greatest province of Tamriel, surely the Orcs could reach similar heights.

However, Anton didn’t not have such hopes for the Reachmen, even the ones in his kitchen. They were beyond his hopes for saving. If a people could become part of civilized society, but calmly and decisively runs around in their undergarments, pillaging and killing whoever they wish, they were beyond civilization’s help. It didn’t help that they looked like Bretons.

But no matter, cooking is for everyone. Why? Because everyone needs to eat. So, he would continue his trade, no matter what bad decisions someone on at table made.

Though he didn’t expect someone to be in his kitchen. “Pardon?” said a very deep voice. Might’ve been coastal Hammerfell.

Anton turned to meet a Redguard traveler, given his skin and clothes. “Yes, yes, for the hundredth time, I am a Breton,” Anton barked, having heard these inquiries before and had gotten quite sick of them, “I was born in High Rock. And then I came here. I am not a Reachman!”

“Ah yes, High Rock,” the Redguard remarked, “Home of exquisite Breton cuisine.” Well, of course it was exquisite; it was more civilized than Redguards’.

At this point, the Redguard had quickly gotten on Anton’s nerves. It was two hours to lunch time and he needed to make the Potage from scratch, and this guy was dead weight. “Who are you?” Anton asked, “What do you want?”

The Redguard sighed. “The Gourmet,” he stated in a more serious voice, “Who is he? Where is he?”

Anton was shocked by this request. How this man learned the chef’s relation to The Gourmet was irrelevant; he would not betray him. He was in Skyrim and especially important business, though what it was he didn’t write. This Redguard clearly knew what that was, but Anton wouldn’t neither was what nor answer where.

“Them, the Gourmet?” he questioned, “Never! I don't know what led you here, but nothing will betray my trust. I'll take the secret of the Gourmet's identity to my grave.”

The Redguard smirked and put a hand on the wall behind Anton, bring close of them together. “For the Dark Brotherhood, that can be easily arranged,” he stated with all the certainty of a man saying the color of the sky.

In nine words, all sense of loyalty fell from Anton’s mind. “The Dark Brotherhood? Now, now wait a minute,” he stuttered, “Let's not get hasty. I mean, surely my friend wouldn't want me to endanger my own life. Right? Look, his name is Balagog gro-Nolob. He's an Orc! The Gourmet's an Orc! He's staying at the Nightgate Inn. That's all I know! Now, now you'll let me go. Right?”

The Redguard maintained his smile. “Of course, Anton,” he stated, “Thank you.”

Anton was only relieved he wouldn’t be killed today. “Okay. All right,” he continued stuttering, “Wonderful. You're welcome! I'll just be on my way, then.”

Anton snuck passed the Redguard in search of his mug. I mean, it had his name on it and everything. He felt he couldn’t leave it around without making sure people knew not to drink from it. He didn’t trust anyone in this kitchen, especially since it was expensive Surilie Brothers’ wine in there.

As he drank from his mug, the implications of what he did set in. He betrayed Balagog’s identity. That would be bad enough, had it not been to a Dark Brotherhood assassin. Well, he had no proof the Redguard was a Brotherhood assassin, only that he carried their threat. But still, if such people were after The Gourmet, Anton should’ve kept his mouth shut. Now, they would find him and do whatever evil things they planned to do with him.

Anton prayed to Stendarr that he would be forgiven for his actions. His betrayal would surely send him to some realm of Oblivion for which he would be torture for eternity. He prayed there would be mercy.

But there was none. In his heart, he felt a sudden but great pain. One that was beyond what he could even comprehend. He had had such chest pains when he was fat as a Horker or when the kitchen got too hot, but this was far worse. He barely had time before he fell to the ground.

So, this was how he died. Struck down by Zenithar for betraying his friend. How uncivilized.

* * *

Skathi and Serana had set up camp for what felt like the day. The Soul Cairn had no sun nor moon in the sky, a fact that proved it was beyond the Divines’ influence. They slept as soundly as they could, considering the storm’s rage and the unsettling reality they found themselves in.

Setting out at what they assumed was night, they began seeing occupants they hadn’t noticed before. They were akin to ghosts, forms of transparent lights, but there was no calm to the lights like they did with real ghosts. Skathi had no professional qualifications to talk about ghosts, but that doesn’t mean she’d never seen them. Crypts tend to have unruly occupants, whether they had a body or not.

These spirits had solemn faces as though they were trying guard themselves from the pain. That can mean they’re being controlled by a malevolent force, but they made no actions toward the vampires. These Ideal Master were perhaps responsible for this, but only in part if this was the fate of mortal souls used in soul stones.

Eventually, Skathi and Serana reached a ruin, tall and dark. The wide entrance was barred with a field of energy and behind it was an older looking woman with glowing red eyes. If this wasn’t Valerica, Skathi was going to wonder how good of a hideout this really was.

Serana spotted this woman and ran to the barrier’s start. “Mother? Mother!” she called.

“Maker” Valerica if there could be anyone else, breathed, “it can't be. Serana?”

“Is it really you?” the vampire daughter asked and began tripping over herself, “I can't believe it! How do we get inside? We have to talk.”

“Serana? What are you doing here?” Valerica asked as a concerned mother would, “Where's your father?”

“He doesn't know we're here. I don't have time to explain.” Serana began looking around for some sign as to how to lower the energy.

“I must have failed. Harkon's found a way to decipher the prophecy, hasn't he?” the vampire mother looked solemnly defeated at the assumption.

“No, you've got it all wrong,” Serana tried to correct her, “We're here to complete the prophecy our way, not his.”

“Wait a moment,” Valerica said in panic at the sight of Skathi, “you've brought a stranger here? Have you lost your mind?”

Serana looked distressed. “No, you don't-”

Her mother interrupted, speaking straight at Skathi. “You. Come forward. I would speak with you.”

Skathi nervously stepped forward. This vampire mother reminded the outsider of her own. She was a shrewd businesswoman and often didn’t see any reason to mother her younger daughter until she made a mistake. That sense of the same close distance radiated from Valerica the way the dead radiate disgust.

“So, how has it come to pass that a vampire of mixed blood is in the company of my daughter?” Valerica remarked.

Skathi crossed her arms to the vampire mother. “I've been keeping her safe.”

That brought a sarcastic smirk to her undead face. “Safe? You call bringing her here safe? Has she explained nothing to you? Serana has sacrificed everything to prevent Harkon from completing the prophecy. I would have expected her to explain that to you.”  
Perhaps Skathi misremembered it, but she thought Valerica put her in that tomb. “That's why I'm here for the Elder Scroll,” she explained.

“You think I'd have the audacity to place my own daughter in that tomb for the protection of her Elder Scroll alone?” the vampire mother snarked, “The scrolls are merely a means to an end. The key to the Tyranny of the Sun is Serana herself.”

This was new to Skathi. “What do you mean?”

“When I fled Castle Volkihar, I fled with two Elder Scrolls,” Valerica explained, “The Scroll I presume you found with Serana speaks of Auriel and his arcane weapon, Auriel's Bow. The second scroll declares that ‘The Blood of Coldharbour's Daughter will blind the eye of the Dragon.’”

Skathi wouldn’t call herself smart, but she wouldn’t call herself dumb either. “So, Serana’s one of these Daughters of Coldharbour?” she presumed.

Both vampires tensed at such a casual use of the term. “You clearly don’t know what a Daughter of Coldharbour is,” she remarked, “Like me, Serana was a human once. We were devout followers of Lord Molag Bal. Tradition dictates the females be offered to Molag Bal on his summoning day. Few survive the ordeal. Those that do emerge as a pure-blooded vampire. Those who emerge are Daughters of Coldharbour.”

No, Skathi didn’t know what that meant, but that doesn’t mean she was blind to the implications. “Serana underwent this ritual willingly?” She asked.

“It was expected of her,” Valerica explained, “just as it was expected of me. Being selected as an offering to Molag Bal is an honor. She wouldn't have dared turn her back on that.”

That didn’t answer her question, but Skathi felt she knew what a “No” sounds like, even if you don’t say it. “The Tyranny of the Sun requires Serana's blood?”

Valerica nodded. “Now you're beginning to see why I wanted to protect Serana, and why I've kept the other Elder Scroll as far from her as possible.”

“Are you saying Harkon means to kill her?”

Valerica grimly sighed. “If Harkon obtained Auriel's Bow and Serana's blood was used to taint the weapon, the Tyranny of the Sun would be complete. In his eyes, she'd be dying for the good of all vampires.”

“I would never allow that to happen,” Skathi proclaimed firmly. However short and however little she knew Serana, it was enough to keep her from her fate.

The vampire mother rolled her eyes in exasperation. “And how exactly do you plan on completing the prophecy without the death of my daughter?”

“I'll kill Harkon.” She’d killed Alduin; this bastard is just a morning shit.

Valerica almost laughed. “If you believe that, then you're a bigger fool than I originally suspected,” she remarked, “Don't you think I weighed that option before I enacted my plans?”

“And Serana's opinion in this?” Skathi asked. She knew this would be done regardless of her daughter’s wishes.

The elder vampire frowned. “You care nothing for Serana or our plight,” she barked, “You see the Tyranny of the Sun as your chance at deification, and like Harkon you won't hesitate to destroy anything that stands in your path.”

“Serana believes me, why won't you?”

Valerica looked upon her daughter in shock. “Serana? This stranger may call herself vampire, but she knoes nothing of our struggle, Why should I entrust you to her?"

Serana, who had been patient as she could be during this conversation, and perhaps for around five centuries at least, lost all sense of calm. “This ‘stranger’ has done more for me in the brief time I've known her than you've done in centuries!"

“How dare you!” her mother hissed, “I gave up everything I cared about to protect you from that fanatic you call a father!”

“Yes, he's a fanatic,” she admitted, “he's changed. But he's still my father. Why can't you understand how that makes me feel?”

To be honest, Skathi didn’t, not really. But everything Serana did with her was her choice, not Skathi’s.

“Oh, Serana,” Valerica cooed like she was talking to a little girl, “If you'd only open your eyes. The moment your father discovers your role in the prophecy, that he needs your blood, you'd be in terrible danger.”

“So, to protect me you decided to shut me away from everything I cared about?” Serana snapped, “You never asked me if hiding me in that tomb was the best course of action, you just expected me to follow you blindly. Both of you were obsessed with your own paths. Your motivations might have been different, but in the end, I'm still just a pawn to you, too.”

The uncontained rage gave way to sorrow. “I want us to be a family again,” she continued, “But I don't know if we can ever have that. Maybe we don't deserve that kind of happiness. Maybe it isn't for us. But we have to stop him. Before he goes too far. And to do that, we need the Elder Scroll.”

This shook Valerica from her miserly protection. “I'm sorry, Serana. I didn't know,” she sputtered, shocked at what she’d down, “I didn't see. I've allowed my hatred of your father to estrange us for too long. Forgive me. If you want the Elder Scroll, it's yours.”

To Skathi, it wasn’t her place to say much, or anything. She didn’t think Valerica was worthy of her daughter. Perhaps that was her own bitterness, perhaps it was the misplaced unresolved between Skathi and her own mother. All she knew was that Serana deserved a better family than this. Strangely, Skathi felt the need to be that family. Perhaps being lonely has its effects on loners the minute they start letting people in.

* * *

Winterhold Capital was as desolate as Ravani remembered. The place was as she remembered, decrepit and abandoned. She couldn’t tell if the Legion left this desolation or if it was always like this. After most of the city fell into the Sea of Ghosts, the place was a ruin. Not that it kept people from living in it, just that it wasn’t an ideal place.

However, there weren’t many people or places left. Ravani noticed how most buildings were empty, if not completely destroyed. The few places that were around were around were people’s homes and basic businesses. The Frozen Hearth, the local inn, was one of them. Since the college was an awkward place for a non-mage, Ravani decided to see if she could find Enthir where surely everyone in Winterhold could stand under one roof.

The inside of the inn was sparse. Few if anyone was inside, likely because it was still morning, and few drank liquor during the day. Not to say this wasn’t the population of the Winterhold, just that it was unlikely. However, there was a Bosmer with wild brown hair and mage’s robes that stood out in a crowd. He seemed like he should be Enthir, but Ravani could only ask, not read him like a book.

As the Dunmer approached, she asked him, “Are you Enthir?”

“Yes, yes,” the Bosmer gruffly replied, “What is it?”

His voice remined Ravani of Mercer. A slight tremble went through her. The fact she was effected by what happened less than a day ago wasn’t a surprise, but it didn’t leave Ravani with pride.

“I've been sent by Karliah,” she stated.

Enthir raised an eyebrow. “Karliah?” he spoke softer, “Then she's finally found it. Do you have Gallus's Journal?”

So, others knew of the Nightingale’s plan. This was likely a conspiracy of sorts, but one Ravani could get behind if she could get even.

“Yes, but there's a problem,” Ravani explained, taking the journal out to hand it over.

“A problem? Let me see it,” Enthir questioned before looking at the journal and his incredulity faded into a smirk, “This is just like Gallus. A dear friend, but always too clever for his own good. He's written all of the text in the Falmer language.”

Bloody Falmer. The ancient Elven forebearers of Skyrim. Given the fact their descendants don’t even speak their language anymore, and aren’t even a civilized people anymore, it was likely no one spoke it anymore. The fact a dead man could write in it proved how archaic the bloody language was. That wasn’t to say he could read it though.

“Can you translate it?” Ravani asked. An academic had better chances than a street rat war veteran thief, that was for certain.

Enthir shook his head. “No. However, I know someone who might. The court wizard of Markarth, Calcelmo, may have the materials you need to get this journal translated. A word of warning. Calcelmo is a fierce guardian of his research. Getting the information won't be easy.”

Of course the one person who could translate it was on the other end of the province and a bloody territorial skunk. With the knowledge he couldn’t just share it, Ravani knew she would likely need to steal his research notes. You hear “Must convince you’re worthy”, she hears “Probably gonna need to steal it.” I mean, she’s a thief; what else did you expect her to do?

But before she left, Ravani felt the need to ask. “What can you tell me about Gallus?”

Enthir’s face was coated in a mournful nostalgia, the kind Ravani knew from old people. “He was a dear friend of mine and a surprisingly astute pupil of academia,” he recounted, “I was devastated when he was killed. I suppose that risk always coexisted with his line of work, I just never thought his luck would run out.”

Hard to believe that a man of thought could ever be a thief. Couldn’t they think of a way to make money other than taking it? Or he could use his intellect to a far easier job than something as physically demanding as the common folk. In case you haven’t notice, Ravani had little patience for the occupations of those with loads of money and no physical effort.

“He was an academic,” she remarked, “yet he chose a different path. Why?”

“Well, for the thrill of course,” Enthir remarked with a smirk, “He was quite clear that he felt more in his element climbing through a window rather than hunched over a dusty tome.”

Ravani couldn’t argue that. Even when she was a Legionnaire, she missed the excitement of the thief’s path. The Stormcloaks left little time to indulge in such things, even if they provided other opportunities for excitement. As long as she was utilizing her skillset, Ravani was happy, and the Legion just asked her to stand around like a statue until she was call upon to serve. That was reason enough to leave.

“How did you meet him?” Ravani inquired. She figured they were schoolboy friends at the college.

“Ah yes, quite an amusing anecdote actually,” he remembered, “I caught him trying to break into my laboratory. I was about to show him the error of his ways when he made a curiously astute comment about my research notes. I was astounded and in turn it led to a conversation. Who'd have imagined it would lead to such a strong friendship.”

Gallus sounded like an undeterred fellow to Ravani. No matter what he did, he would do it without regard for the difficulties. No matter what, life was an adventure, and everything was a part of that. How he ever became the guild master was surely down to his ability to keep the books straight, given they don’t call it the Ratway because of the astute minds that come from there. He seemed a better man than his killer, that was for sure.

Before Ravani left, she wanted the opinion of a smart person. “You’ve seen Karliah’s eyes, right?” she asked, to which he nodded, “How do you reckon they’re violet?”

Enthir shrugged. “I dunno,” he admitted, “The fact you and other Dunmer have black eyes is remarkable in itself, so I don’t know what it could be. Maybe Azura’s curse is dying out with increased worship to the old gods of Morrowind, but that’s questionable as well. In times of strife, worship actually goes down. I don’t know what it is, only that it is.”

That was less helpful that Ravani hoped. She was certain the answer would be confusing, not that it would be a literal shrug. It wouldn’t bother Ravani if it weren’t something glaringly obvious. Was it the work of the gods or a sign their power was waning? She already knew they didn’t care about the people’s strife; it would be pretty hilarious if it turned out they’re lacking care led to everyone else not caring about them.

* * *

Fultheim didn’t come to Nightgate Inn for the company. The inn was entirely empty, though it probably shouldn’t have been. It was on the west road going into Eastmarch and Winterhold, which should’ve been enough to make this little place got on its feet. Logically, it should be bustling with adventurers, merchants, and hunters. But instead, it was as dead as the grave.

No, Fultheim came here for the drink. He had fought long and hard for his Empire and it was all for naught. As a Blade, the White-Gold Concordant demanded his death. Well, he refused to simply die, but he didn’t enjoy living either. He was a lot different from the boy that left Cloud Ruler Temple with the drive to slay Thalmor scum. He had true regrets for what he did and didn’t do. So, here he was, with unwanted memories.

It was good of the Hadring, the innkeeper, to let him hang around there. Fultheim didn’t have that much money, and he often spent it at the Nightgate, but he was never thrown out. Maybe he was simply happy to have some sort of business, even if it was minuscule. Not that the mead was all that strong; it was just enough so that he could think about the liquor more than the memories.

Right about the time Fultheim lost count of his drink, he heard the door open. “Ah, hello there, traveler,” Hadring was quick to greet, “Come to the Nightgate for food or lodging?”

Fultheim looked to the door and saw a Redguard traveler. His garb was that of one, with a turban and baggy pants, and as a Redguard, he had distinct racial features that you couldn’t mistake. It was funny, since of the few travelers going to and from the other holds, Redguards weren’t amongst them. Well, at least ones that were clearly from Hammerfell, as his clothes would imply.

“Just food and board,” the Redguard stated. He had a coastal Hammerfell accent, specifically from Sentinel. He was a way away from home, that was obvious.

“Ah, good,” Hadring remarked, coming out from behind the bar to greet the traveler, “We have Alto wine from the vineyards, cabbage apple stew on the fire, and fresh bread every day.” A lie: the bread only came once every three days. When you stay around the Inn as long as Fultheim does, you notice things.

“Good, I’m peckish for some stew,” the traveler remarked, “Do you get a lot of business?”

“Nah, not so much,” Hadring admitted, “The odd traveler on the road. But mostly just old Fultheim, come to drink away a lifetime of bad memories, I'd wager. Course there's the Orc. Long-term tenant, that one. For what he pays, I could afford to shut this place down.”

The Orc. The Orc was The Gourmet. Fultheim had seen his at the Banquet of Skingrad on the eve of the Great War. The Blade had been asked to attend to pledge loyalty during this war. He had heard the recently acclaimed Gourmet was cooking, which came as a surprise when he looked in and saw an Orc barking orders like Instructor Koffkil. Another swig of mead.

“Tell me about the Orc,” the travel asked.

“Him? Oh,” Hadring clearly didn’t remember his named well, “Ah, name's Balablob or Malaclob, one of them funny Orc names.”

Balagog gro’Nolob. Another swig.

“Talks good, though,” the innkeeper continued, “Not a savage at all. Said he's a writer. Don't know what kind of job that is, but it must earn him some pretty coin. He's paid up for the next few months. He mostly just hangs about. Goes down to the lake, sometimes samples the wine stores in the cellar. Man can do whatever he pleases, far as I care.”

Balagog said he was working on salmon recipes. He was clearly working on recipes for the next edition of Uncommon Taste. His sampling of the Alto wine was because he’d never tasted its sort before. He was wondering if it would be good for cooking. Another swig.

“Anything you need, just holler,” Hadring stated.

With that, the innkeeper went back behind the bar and went down into the cellar. There, Balagog would likely ask what goes on, Hadring would say it’s a traveler, Balagog makes some remarked about Redguard cuisine, and there’s that. Fultheim was trained to play out numerous situations in his mind for it happened. They were trained to be paranoid. That was enough to cause him to take another swig.

Setting his empty bottle down, Fultheim noticed the traveler was stood over him. Said traveler had clearly seen his room and been completely fine with it if he didn’t say anything. Someone might see him as a socialite, someone who just had to talk with everyone. Well, it was likely night, so it wasn’t likely he wanted to talk to everyone before dinner and rest after a day’s journey. More likely, he was fishing for information. He seemed like a shifty person.

“What do you want?” Fultheim asked.

“Do you come here a lot?” the traveler asked.  
It was an out of the way of any settlement, just for travelers, so Fultheim decided to play drunk. “You see any other inns around here?” he asked, “Where else would I go to drink?”

“What do you know about the Orc?” the traveler further inquired.

So, that was his game. The traveler wanted something to do with Balagog. It was hard to say what he knew and didn’t know about, as well as who the traveler was associated with, and what he would do with the Orc. Fultheim wouldn’t just give away everything, so he would once again play drunk. He hoped that would be enough to make sure the traveler would think he was in the wrong place.

“Well he don't like company,” the drunkard remarked, “I can tell you that much. Just wants to be left alone. But no, that's not really it. It's like,” he paused, wondering how to phrase this, “he wants to talk. Likes people and all. But he stays separate because he's supposed to. Kind of sad, really.”

The traveler seemed interested in what he said, but Fultheim didn’t quite trust that. If he was going to be pushed for it, he was going to draw his sword. He may be drunk and out of practice, but he remembered the way of the Blades. He didn’t like his chances, but he was going to take them if given the opportunity.

Fortunately, he didn’t need to take them. As Hadring came out of the cellar, the traveler remarked, “There’s skeever in my room” like someone who’d been waiting to say it.

“Shit,” the innkeeper cursed. He set aside the bread and wine and took his mace from the bar. He went into the room as Fultheim took a long swig from one of the full bottles at his table.

When Fultheim looked again, the traveler was head down the cellar. Well play, assassin.


	16. Chapter 16

Valerica tasked Skathi and Serana with freeing her from her impromptu prison and she was would give the Elder Scroll. The barrier was maintained by three creatures she referred to as Keepers, powerful servants of the Ideal Masters. Killing the Keepers would dispel the barrier, so that’s what the younger vampires would do.

The Keepers were easy enough prey. They were big, no head for an arrow to touch and armored with bone plate. But they were slow. By the time they spotted Skathi and ran over to kill her, they were stuck with enough arrows in the right places to fall apart at its own step. Save for the one with the bow, who was instead Shouted off a convenient ledge and shattered upon landing. It wasn’t really beyond what Skathi was used to, just a little less furry.

Upon their return, Skathi and Serana beheld the barrier was fallen. Valerica stood in wait for their return. Serana seemed to tense a little at their return. Skathi knew it was because of how Valerica didn’t change. Centuries in isolation did little to make her reflect on whether she did right by her daughter.

“You managed to destroy all three Keepers?” Valerica remarked, “Very impressive.”

“Are you able to give us the scroll now?” Skathi asked bluntly.

“Yes. Please, follow me,” the mother vampire beckoned, “Keep watch for Durnehviir. With the prison's barrier down, he's almost certain to investigate.”

Valerica walked deeper into the ruins, the younger vampires following close behind. Skathi noted Durnehviir’s name was perfect for Shouting. And you can only make a Shout out of the dragon language. So, there was a dragon in the Soul Cairn. That wasn’t something Skathi expected to find here, but she was perfectly capable of making short work of him when the time came. She was Dovahkiin; it’s practically in the name.

The vampires entered into what Skathi could only describe as an arena akin to those in Cyrodiil, save for clearly being in a hellscape. The sand that creeped into every nook and cranny surrounded a stone floor. Alcoves of were all around the walls, one of them probably holding Valerica’s Elder Scroll. If Skathi was a canny dragon, this would be perfect for an ambush.

But she was not a canny dragon. Durnehviir was though, and Skathi could see a rot green dragon in the stormy sky, circling the arena. He knew they were there. He descended to perhaps reign fire onto the vampires, but he did not know his enemy.

**“Joor zah frul!”**

The Shout struck Durnehviir from the sky and he crashed onto the ground like thunder strikes steel. As he fell, blackened skeletons rose from the sand and charged with ruined weapons to strike them. Skathi was used to fighting the unliving, but they took her sword’s strength better than she expected. It would take more than one hit to keep them in the ground.

They were also faster, one almost able to lop off Skathi’s head before she knew there was a sword. And they were stronger, as she was recoiled from the strike all the same. A slash in reprisal simple broke bones, not shatter the skeleton. It was clear they were held together with stronger magics than the average necromancer. Who was she kidding? This is where some necromancer got their power; of course, the dead would be stronger.

This distracted Skathi and the others long enough for Durnehviir to rise into the sky again. This sight was infuriating, but a dagger to Skathi’s back shot pain into her body she hadn’t felt in uncounted years. And rage. Rage that she hadn’t felt closer to twelve.

She turned around, face the boneman and smashed them with Iokogah, shattering bone across the stone floor. In this rage, Skathi started breaking the unliving with one strike. When archers struck her from afar, she charged them and broke them into a fine powder. This berserker rage would keep her from dying such a terrible death so far away from her sister. She wanted to die holding Agata’s hand, not in some plain of Oblivion no Daedric Prince watched over.

Skathi returned her attention to Durnehviir, who began to hover in the sky. Surely, he was going to rain fire upon them now.

**“Joor zah frul!”**

No. Dragonrend sent him to the ground again, and bonemen rose to his aid, but Skathi ignored them and charged Durnehviir himself. She pushed through one boneman after another until she was in sword’s length of her quarry. She raised the sword, only to be met with.

**“Yol toor shul!”**

The fire surrounded Skathi like air would, but she knew it would not harm her. All that it did was scorch her armor. When the flames past, Durnehviir’s smug expression, if a dragon could make one, was stole for Skathi to use as her own.

She climbed upon the dragon’s muzzle and began to strike his scales like she had done to many a dragon before. The often-sharp blade of Iokogah was finding purchase on his hide hard, but not impossible. The more she swung, the more it broke until she found bare skin to stab in his head. The shock of death sent a wave across the dragon’s body and shook Skathi off the fresh cadaver.

Skathi landed on the stone floor with no issue. As she walked away from her slain foe, his soul didn’t follow after her. What did happen was the bonemen became nothing more than piles of ash on the ground. Perhaps being summoned by Durnehviir meant that when he was slain, his minions were slain, a common fate for a necromancer’s deeds.

Valerica looked on in disbelief at the actions of the Dragonborn. “Forgive my astonishment, but I never thought I'd witness the death of that dragon.”

“What makes you say that?” Skathi smirked, sheathing her sword.

“Volumes written on Durnehviir allege that he can't be slain by normal means,” Valerica explained, “It appears they were mistaken. Unless,” she trailed off in thought.

Skathi’s smug assurance gave way to reality. He gave no soul upon death. “Go on.”

“The soul of a dragon is as resilient as its owner's scaly hide. It's possible that your killing blow has merely displaced Durnehviir's physical form while he reconstitutes himself.”

“How long will that take?” the Dragonborn almost panicked. She never encounter a dragon like this and wanted every scrap of information she could.

“Minutes? Hours? Years?” Valerica speculated, “I can't even begin to guess. I suggest we don't wait around to find out. Now, let's get you the Elder Scroll and you can be on your way.”

The mother vampire lead them to an alcove in the arena. In there, there was a case framed with potions and alchemy ingredients all around. Valerica opened the case to behold an Elder Scroll.

As Skathi took it, Valerica remarked, “Now that you've retrieved the Elder Scroll, you should be on your way.”

“You're staying here?” Skathi didn’t care much; she just wanted to confirm it.

“I have no choice,” Valerica explained, “As I told you before, I'm a Daughter of Coldharbour. If I return to Tamriel, that increases Harkon's likelihood of bringing the Tyranny of the Sun to fruition."

“We'll return when we can.” Skathi assured, strapping the Elder Scroll to her satchel. An idle promise.

“I appreciate your concern for me,” the mother vampire genuinely remarked, “but Serana is all that I care about. You must keep her safe at all cost.” She pulled Skathi close in. “Remember that Harkon isn't to be trusted,” she whispered, “No matter what he promises, he'll deceive you in order to get what he wants. And promise me you'll keep my daughter safe. She's the only thing of value I have left.”

Valerica seemed genuinely afraid. And Skathi knew what she said was truth, nevertheless. But Skathi was genuine as well when she said she’d kill Harkon; Valerica just didn’t think Skathi could do it. After the display before them, the Dragonborn hoped she believed it now.

Skathi and Serana left the arena, the senior vampire applying what healing spells she knew, even if she was inexperienced with that school of magic. As they made their seventh step, Durnehviir reappeared. The two vampires drew their weapons and prepared their magics as the dragon spoke.

“Stay your weapons,” it beckoned with the authority of the damned, “I would speak with you, Qahnaarin.”

Skathi lowered her weapons and signaled for Serana to do the same. When a dragon speaks to a mortal, they’ve decided they’ll not try to kill you just yet. Whether it be toying with their prey or a true discussion with mortals, one could only say if they engaged the dragon in equal dialogue. But first, a formality.

**“Yol toor shul!”**

Fire burst across the distance between Skathi and Durnehviir, engulfing the dragon in flame. Serana looked confused and scared as she witness this, but that’s because she didn’t know dragon customs. When dragon flame meets dragon, that is merely a greeting, not necessarily a sigh of aggression. As Skathi noted, this dragon seemed grateful for the heat, presumably having not felt it in centuries at least. How does a dragon end up in a place like this?

“I thought you were dead,” Skathi remarked.

“Cursed, not dead,” Durnehviir corrected as the last embers faded from sight, “Doomed to exist in this form for eternity. Trapped between laas and dinok, between life and death.”

It explained nothing. A dragon doesn’t speak with a mortal, even if they may be Dragonborn, just to chat. “Why are we speaking?” Skathi questioned.

The dragon shift uncomfortably on its perch. “My claws have rendered the flesh of innumerable foes,” he recalled, “but I have never once been felled on the field of battle. I therefor honor-name you ‘Qahnaarin,’ or Vanquisher in your tongue.”

Something felt dishonest in his words. It was likely enough he had never been felled in battle, and that he’d faced many foes. That left Qahnaarin. It felt more honorific than a mere dragon slayer, less like a killer and more like a warrior, if that makes sense. Skathi felt like she’d been named a shield-sister or something similarly honorable. If this is how he regarded her for defeating him, then she was surely in the presence of a true equal.

“I found you equally worthy,” she returned in kind.

“Your words do me great honor,” Durnehviir bowed, “My desire to speak with you was born from the result of our battle, Qahnaarin. I merely wish to respectfully ask a favor of you.”

A favor. A dragon’s favor was more valuable than the wealth of every Dwarven kingdom at its height put together. “What kind of a favor?” Skathi inquired.

“For countless years I've roamed the Soul Cairn, in unintended service to the Ideal Masters,” the dragon recalled, “Before this, I roamed the skies above Tamriel. I desire to return there.”

This didn’t sound as simple as just leaving the Soul Cairn. Firstly, it’s hard to leave it, so there was difficulty there. What’s more, he had untold years to find a way to escape this nightmare world. This wasn’t as easy as a walk in the Falkreath woods, nor was it as easy as living twelve years in the Jerall mountains. No, it was far harder than even that.

“What's stopping you?” Skathi asked respectably.

“I fear that my time here has taken its toll upon me,” Durnehviir mourned, “I share a bond with this dreaded place. If I ventured far from the Soul Cairn, my strength would begin to wane until I was no more.”

A dreadful fate tied to this wretched abyss. “How could I help?” Skathi inquired. She wouldn’t ask this on her most hated enemies, only her most despised ally.

The dragon perked up at her willingness. “I will place my name with you and grant you the right to call my name from Tamriel,” he stated, “Do for me this simple honor and I will fight at your side as your Grah-Zeymahzin, your Ally, and teach you my Thu'um.”

Ah, that made sense. A dragon’s name meant a lot to them. With the Voice, their names could be called from any realm in the wheel, from Mundus at the center to Oblivion in outwards and Aetherius outmost, and they would be compelled to meet the summon. That was the power of calling a dragon’s name. They were just that powerful for them.

However, it was also so easy. Had no dragon earned the right to call upon him as his ally? Had they died? It was certain he couldn’t just leave if no one were summoning him. She hoped she wasn’t forgotten. In Skathi’s mind, being forgotten in a realm of Oblivion was a fate worse than death. Granted, you would likely end up there after death, but to merely die wasn’t as bad as this.

However, dragons don’t end up in planes of Oblivion for no reason. “How did you end up in the Soul Cairn?” Skathi inquired.

A sort of mournful attitude gripped Durnehviir. “There was a time when I called Tamriel my home,” he recounted, “But those days have long since passed. The dovah roamed the skies, vying for their small slices of territory that resulted in immense and ultimately fatal battles.”

Those were the days of Alduin, where enslaved Nords revolted against their overlords. “Were you a part of all that?” Skathi inquired. She wondered how many of her kin he slew and lorded over personally.

“I was,” he nodded, “But unlike some of my brethren, I sought solutions outside the norm in order to maintain my superiority. I began to explore what the dovah call ‘Alok-Dilon,’ the ancient forbidden art that you call necromancy.”

A dragon necromancer? Not the sort of thing Skathi had ever heard of. “So you sought the Soul Cairn for answers.” A reckless thing that mortals did, but she wondered if Durnehviir was the only dragon as reckless as them. Likely not.

“The Ideal Masters assured me that my powers would be unmatched, that I could raise legions of the undead,” he stated with regret so clear that even Skathi saw it, “In return, I was to serve them as a Keeper until the death of the one who calls herself Valerica.”

Not exactly a wise on his end. “They didn't tell you she was immortal,” Skathi chuckled. Well, not immortal. Surely a vampire can’t live forever.

She couldn’t tell his expression, but she had a feeling he was unamused. “I discovered too late that the Ideal Masters favor deception over honor and had no intention of releasing me from my binding,” Durnehviir growled, “They had control of my mind, but fortunately they couldn't possess my soul.”

“Is that why you're free now?” Skathi inquired. She had a feeling he wasn’t free, but she just wanted to make sure.

“Free?” Durnehviir telling questioned, “No. I have been here too long, Qahnaarin. The Soul Cairn has become a part of what I am. I could never fully call Tamriel my home again, or I would surely perish. I only hope that you will allow me the precious moments of time there through your call.”

Skathi understood this and nodded in recognition. She didn’t think she would find an opportunity to use her new ally, but she believed she’d find it eventually. Little did she know this conversation would decide the fate of Skyrim.  


* * *

Skathi and Serana returned to the realm of sense with no difficulty. There was some difficulty navigating their way to the parts of Castle Volkihar that were inhabited, but it was far easier than getting to Valerica’s study, and by far easier than navigation the Soul Cairn. They found they’d arrived closer towards dawn than dusk, so they could grab some dinner and have the scrolls read and they would have an hour or two to mill about.

And Skathi felt she earned some time to herself. She didn’t know how she’d spend that time, but she had all the Elder Scrolls they needed. Serana had the first, Valerica had the second, and Skathi had the third. She carried the Elder Scroll she recovered before with her, it being understood that such an artifact is too dangerous to be left unguarded. With the scrolls together, they could very well find Harkon’s quarry, this bow of Auriel, before he did and Skathi would pull the arrow from that bow that kills him.

The atmosphere when the vampires entered the Volkihar court was palpable. It was clearly not dinner time and the others were disinterest in being there if there wasn’t going to be food. Only a few vampires and Dexion was no one to be seen. His disappearing didn’t encourage Skathi.

She approached Vingalmo, the Altmer vampire that first greeted her, hoping she’d seen someone. “Dexion is missing.”

Vingalmo looked unphased. “Missing implies no one knows where he is,” he replied, “I know where his corpse lies.”

Skathi was shocked in anger. Dexion was the one person who could read the Elder Scrolls, and he was virtually irreplaceable. Not only that, but he was Skathi’s responsibility. His life was hers, even if she took his freewill from him. He deserved better than what this bastard did to him.

“Why in the blackest depths of Oblivion is he dead?” Skathi questioned, barely able to contain her anger and tears.

“Well,” Vingalmo explained, “he had gone blind.”

Blind? How could he go blind?

“He said that, in his haste to read the Elder Scroll,” Vingalmo continued, “he neglected the need precautions. His blindness was the scroll’s doing. I merely freed him of his body’s curse.”

Skathi couldn’t believe him. She had read an Elder Scroll and she could still see the grin on his face. Perhaps it was her Dragonborn nature that protect her, but it was far from justified to kill him for his blindness. He may have lost his usefulness, but he hadn’t proven himself some waste of humanity, nor a monster in need of slaying. He was a person, not a broken toy. Perhaps a bad example for Skathi; she kept her broken toys.

“Is that all you have to justify yourself?” Skathi asked, laying a hand on her sword’s hilt. Serana put a hand on hers, keeping her from drawing the blade.

“What justification do I need?” Vingalmo questioned, “I am a loyal servant of my lord, one of his chief lieutenants, and the blindman’s usefulness was over. What of it?”

It wasn’t that he had said something that particularly buried him. It was that he had continued to say things that, individually, would’ve damned him. And by now, he was finding himself in a deeper and deeper pit of Oblivion to torture him. And he was a vampire, he was going to Coldharbour anyway. Why not speed him on his way?

**“Fus Ro Dah!** ”

The Shout threw Vingalmo across the banquet tables and into one of the coffins. This shocked many, including Serana, allowing Skathi to charge the stumbling vampire. She took him by the collar and began to beat him within an inch of his life. He deserved to be hurt. Skathi knew that, Serana knew that, everyone here knew that. They’d watched he got what he deserved.

As the blood fell from Vingalmo’s nose, Skathi could feel herself being pull of him. She turned and saw Serana behind her. She also saw all the vampires behind them, all of whom had magics and blades in hand. All of them would rather kill her than let this scum of the world be hurt. All of them were cowards, monsters in her mind, and she would have no business with them.

Skathi stormed off to her private chambers, bare as they were. This room was at her discretion, unlike everything else in this castle. She found she could no longer bare quarry in this castle. She despised all of them, for they were surely monsters. She didn’t desire to break bread with them anymore.

“Listen,” Serana’s voice broke through Skathi’s thoughts, “I would rather you kill him- “

“Then let me kill him!” Skathi snapped.

“But I can’t!” she replied, “In court, you can’t just kill who you wish, even if you lord over them. You must have the support of them throughout every decision and have every deed they wouldn’t approve in the realm of hearsay.”

Of course. That’s how Skathi always heard a court worked. That’s why she acted as she did all those years ago. The Jarl’s man was never going to face consequences, so she stabbed him over and over again. She thought she would escape these things, but no, they followed her. Castle Volkihar was meant to be her escape from the world she wouldn’t fit into, not be one yet again.

Skathi stewed, looking out the window. She saw the strange birds on the wind, ones she’d never seen before. The form of an eagle, but with black feathers and an exposed skull. They were creatures that surely couldn’t live anywhere but here, as other birds would surely break their heads open. Perhaps Skathi had doomed herself to a life like theirs.

After a while, Serana spoke up. “Any thoughts as to how to continue?”

Skathi didn’t have much. She could read all the Elder Scrolls, but the time she did, she admitted there were circumstances that may have allowed her to retain her sight. She wouldn’t just risk it. Since finding the Moth Priest, she recalled the book she’d read months back about the nature of the Elder Scrolls. They needed to be read in a specific place, one Skathi might’ve been to.

“I have an idea,” she stated, “A place in the Jerall Mountains.”

Serana perked up. Skathi liked it when she did that.

“However,” she continued, “you’ll need pack light. I know the terrain, and the difference between life and death can be the weight in your pack. If your pack was heavier than it needed to be, you died for a few useless trinkets.”

Serana nodded. She seemed to understand it. Skathi knew you had to climb the terrain to really get it. Nothing wakes you up quite like the constant possibility of death.  


* * *

It had been a few days since Rena took Alary out of the Bards’ College. Instead, she had been sending the Breton girl to learn from Sybille Stentor in the Blue Palace. They were quite willing to have her around, Sybille especially. Something about getting an apprentice, a Breton one at that, that spark her passion for teaching. It worried Rena some, but she wasn’t about to question it to her face, what with her being a court advisor.

Since then, Alary’s disposition improved. Well, of what Rena could notice. She didn’t hear anything about fights, there was more time with Alary at the barracks, and even more talk between them. Maybe that was just being on extended leave due the investigation, but Rena was enjoying it.

Still, there were twinges of guilt. Uncertainty. There were things she wasn’t certain were right for Alary. She didn’t know if she should’ve kept with the Bards’ College and be warry of Sybille until the day she dies, or if this was the wise move. She couldn’t transfer, especially not now with the investigation. She worried she was going to ruin Alary’s life while trying to improve it.

There were few Rena could trust with her anxieties, and she didn’t expect them to be that helpful. Ansgar seemed young to be a father, though Rena wasn’t certain if that was because she thought all fathers were old, and he usually had something to say about anything. General Tullius was her utmost superior, so whether this talk was appropriate behavior to have or not was up for debate, but she knew he was father. They were the only ones at hand that she could trust with these things.

These two were in the yard of Castle Dour. The new recruits needed training if they were to keep up with the fresh regiments, such as they were. The casualties were too great to be supplemented by what regiments were sent, so recruitment runs were woefully common. Tullius oversaw things, while Ansgar trained a company of two-handed swordsmen to break the Stormcloak shield wall. They were ready when the truce was over.

As Ansgar took a break to talk to Tullius, Rena approached them.

“Pardon,” she interjected, “I’d like to discuss something with the two of you.”

Tullius nodded. “As long as it has nothing to do with bloody Dagrun Blood-Maiden,” Ansgar replied, “I’m willing to have any conversation.”

Rena always thought that was odd. Whenever someone brought up Dagrun Blood-Maiden, he would go quiet, even leave the room if it dominated the group conversation. The idea he was intimidated by a woman didn’t set well with Rena, as his bravery elsewhere was beyond exemplary. Someday, Rena might ask, or even understand why he was so defensive, but not today.

“Have either of you dealt with teenagers?” Rena asked.

Tullius groaned. “Five, so far,” he remarked, “and that’s just because number six is turning thirteen next Rain’s Hand. I’ve heard every argument, I’ve had every problem, and I’ve done everything I could for them. Ask away.”

Well, at least she went to the expert. “You know about Alary, right?” Rena asked. Tullius nodded. She continued, “I sent her to the Bards’ College for a few days, but it wasn’t right for her. Now, I’ve sent her to Sybille Stentor to learn magic. I’m worried I’m not doing right by her with any of this. Do you know how I could do the right thing?”

Tullius sighed. The sagely, fatherly demeanor was wiped away and replaced by the type of men Rena knew drank. Or ate. Or found anything to try and supplement a lacking place in their soul. It should be no surprise he went for the wine flask. He took a long drink and prepared himself to say something.

“As a General of the Imperial Legion,” he stated, “it’s not my place to say what one does with their indentured servants.”

Rena figured one of them would bring that up. She wasn’t Alary’s mother, she was her master. Even if she was the closest thing she had to a parental figure, she still had to think of her investment. She’d heard it all the time.

“But,” Tullius continued, “I well know that all you can do is support your kids, not choose their life for them.”

The regret in his voice became evident with every word. “I wanted my eldest to marry well and settle down. He didn’t want that; he wanted to fight the Thalmor. I told him that wasn’t his place, that he should accept his place. And then he ran off to Hammerfell. I never saw him again.”

Rena saw his pain with every word. She could tell that if he could do it all again, he’d choose for his son to go into the Legion, not to be used as a political pawn. If Tullius didn’t want his kids to grow up to be Legionnaires, that wasn’t his decision if they said they wanted to. It was their life to sacrifice.

It occurred to Rena that she’d never asked what Alary wanted. She couldn’t see what the girl wanted. Because they were officially master and servant, did Alary just go along what Rena said without any regard for herself? She needed to pay the debt, but that was what the law required, no what Rena wanted. She wanted the girl to grow up into a woman that could live whatever life she wanted.

“Thank you for that,” Ansgar half-snarked. The other half wasn’t so clear.

Tullius looked at Ansgar incredulously. “At least I don’t have the directional sense of an extinct species,” he snarked right back, “I’m surprised you didn’t get lost on your way to making kids.”

At the thought of that, Rena was quite surprised. The idea of this guy having kids was as unappealing as it was expected.

“Please,” Rena begged, “stop lying to a superior officer. First the bit about having a wife, now kids. You’re a matchmaker’s wildest dream, but a parent’s worst nightmare.” Rena meant that. Tall, strong, and rugged were all appealing to a prospective matchmaker, but no parent would ever let their child marry someone with a commission in a warzone.

“For the record,” Ansgar practically shouted, “it wasn’t a matchmaker that set it up; it was my complete lack of directional sense.”

The Legionnaires shared a laugh, but it wasn’t to last. From the western entrance, the way to the Blue Palace, came a courier. They straightened themselves and awaited for him to pick someone to give the message to. He gave it to Rena. Silence stilled the air as she opened the letter and saw something that chilled her bones.

“Rena Donton,

Over the last few days, we've had some disturbing information come to light regarding the events at Wolfskull Cave and the summoning and binding ritual you interrupted there.

Given your involvement with that event I'm asking you to return to Solitude to help us once more. I'm wary of putting all the details in print, please come see me at the Blue Palace.

Sincerely,  
Falk Firebeard”


	17. Chapter 17

Rena bolted across the road to the Blue Palace, her imagination running wild. For all intents and purposes, the events of Wolfskull Cave were isolated. It was just a bunch of ambitious necromancers, not a wider cult. If there were further effort or, Arkay forbid, a chance the ritual had brought Wolf Queen Potema back to life, chaos not seen since the Oblivion crisis may line the streets of Solitude again.

In uniform and out of breath, Rena entered the Blue Palace and arrived in court. As she caught her breath, she spotted Sybille Stentor with Alary at her side. They looked perfectly fine, Sybille’s sardonic demeanor evermore and Alary’s awkwardness evident. The two didn’t notice Rena’s arrival, seeing as how they were in their own conversation. Rena hoped that meant Alary was doing well. She might not be for long if Potema’s efforts were successful.

As Rena approached Falk, he remarked, “The courier must have found you.”

“You sent me a message about Wolf Skull Cave?” she inquired.

“Yes, old friend,” Falk replied, somberly nodding, “I'm afraid it's not good news. When you broke up the binding, Potema escaped.”

And that was it. The worst possible result was here. Rena knew there was a risk inherent to interrupting the ritual, but she took it in stride. If she’d done nothing, there might be something far worse, like the necromancers’ ambitions realized with the soul of the Wolf Queen behind their warpath. Still, one could argue the results would be the same if Rena had just stayed back and let everything unfold. But that was something Rena felt she could do.

“We've encountered some of her minions.” Falk continued grimly, “Styrr says she's still in spirit form or we'd all be dead already. You've already done us a service in stopping the binding, but I need you to go talk to him, to see if Styrr can tell us what to do next.”

Rena nodded, but not without reserve. “Who is Styrr?” she asked.

“He's Solitude's priest of Arkay,” the steward explained, “He's the one who figured out Potema was still around. He'll help as much as he can.”

Then the task was clear. “I'll talk to Styrr,” Rena stated, “We'll figure something out.”

“I wish you well, friend,” Falk bade, “Be careful.”

As Rena began to leave, it came into her head that she may not return from this. She may be skilled in the art of war and combat, but the limits of magic, especially a powerful sorceress such as the Wolf Queen, were unknown for her. Here, more than any other time was she considering the fact she wouldn’t have the chance to say goodbye, and she fought a dragon! Twice! But here, there was time to say goodbye to someone.

With that in mind, Rena decided to settle something with Alary. She wanted to make sure the poor girl knew why she was doing all this. It wasn’t for wealth or service; that wasn’t Rena.

When the fighter approached the two Breton mages, Sybille took note first, then Alary. “Captain Donton,” she remarked, “You’re here to see your servant’s progress?”

“In a way,” Rena dodged quicker than the dragon, “I would like to talk to her, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Very well,” the court mage stated, “I had some work to do anyway.” As she was leaving, she remarked, “She’s doing quite well so far. Could likely be a successful mage.”

With it just being Rena and Alary, Rena felt that she was able to talk to the Breton girl. Though Alary still looked nervous as ever and that always bugged Rena. You can’t be nervous forever; bravery is best for that.

“Are you enjoying your tutoring?” the fighter asked.

“It’s fine,” Alary said shortly.

Rena was didn’t find that response assuring. “Fine” doesn’t always mean things are good. “What I mean is,” she clarified, “I want to know if you’re enjoying or passionate about what you’re learning.”

Alary shrugged. By doing all this, Rena didn’t know Alary’s actually opinion. The answers lack such commitment that it felt like this wasn’t the right thing to do. For all she knew, Rena was subjecting Alary to so much pain with all this over the past week with all this. She wanted to ask, for once, what she wanted, but that wasn’t going to happen with this attitude.

“Listen,” Rena sighed, “if you’re not enjoying your studies and think you could do better elsewhere, I’ll do what I can. I care about whether you’ll fuck your life over when you pay your debt.”

Alary nodded. Rena was getting tired of her awkwardness. “Listen,” she continued, calmer than before, “the only reason you’re my indentured servant is because I think you still have a chance at life. I want you to learn a trade and leave my service with a way to continue through life. I don’t wanna have you learning something you don’t wanna. I need to here if that’s what you want. Do you want to be a mage? Or a bard? Or something else?”

The look on Alary’s face was telling. She was frustrated and hurt and confused. The questions Rena asked were ones she didn’t have the answer to, and it put fear and concern into both of them.

“I don’t know what I want,” Alary admitted with a timid voice, “I don’t know what I’m good at. I didn’t want to become a bard, but if you wanted me to do it, I would’ve done it. I’m not an idiot; I obey my master.”

And that’s what hurt. She was doing this for someone else, not herself. There was only one way Alary would ever start doing something for herself, not Rena. It was drastic, but Rena couldn’t think of anything else.

“With my authority as your indentured master,” Rena declared, “I hereby waved your debt to me. You’re free from my service.”

* * *

All her life, Gianna aspired to be a good cook. She always fell into that role from her mother being the court chef of the Blue Palace, so Gianna was fell into fulfilling that role when she passed. No one expected her mother to pass as soon as she did, nor did they expect her daughter to become a chef. But you know what they say: If you can’t stand the heat, get outta the kitchen.

Had Gianna lived up to her mother’s legacy? No clue, she’s still always learning new things. Maybe that’s the sign of a tradesman, but it didn’t make her feel like a complete chef. She read Uncommon Taste, like any chef, but she would always stride to develop her own style, if not her own recipes. No one had come down to the kitchen to kill her yet, so she must be doing something right.

But just doing something right wasn’t enough today. Today, the Emperor was here to be fed. Few chefs ever get the opportunity to cook for such a prestigious person. Now wasn’t the time for mistakes. Having something that he didn’t like the taste of may have dire consequences, and if he would die because of her food, she would quickly share his fate.

As such, she wouldn’t be bearing this burden alone. The Gourmet would be in her kitchen, cooking for the recently arrived Emperor as well. This too was an opportunity few are ever given, and Gianna wasn’t about to lesson. She was going to learn everything she could from whoever The Gourmet was and probably become a better chef. She would also become part of the lucky few who would know who the Gourmet was off the page.

Sadly, she didn’t assume right as to who The Gourmet was. Gianna assumed they were a pact breaker Bosmer, given they tended to take to herbs with such gusto. No, she was a Redguard who wore a linen tunic over the awful traditional dress. Smart, and Gianna might want to pick up on that. At least she looked old enough to be the Gourmet, since that book was a few decades old by now.

By the time The Gourmet arrived, Gianna was already following the published recipe of the Portage le Magnifique, but she knew every chef had their own variations, and she knew even The Gourmet had her own. Before The Gourmet did anything, she tasted the Portage to make sure it was right, then her instructions came. A splash of mead for the sweet to savory, a Nirnroot for seasoning, dice Horker meat for the flavor and texture, and this unfamiliar root with the strong smell of nutmeg. She wondered what this secret ingredient was.

Ultimately, it was an interesting experience. Gianna felt like she was a mere sous chef to The Gourmet, who didn’t actually do anything but offer her expertise. She didn’t get to know the Gourmet that well, nor did she discern anything that useful. And The Gourmet felt like a cold person. Ironic, given the reputation some chefs have.

Gianna nervously walked to the banquet hall, every step feeling like she was stepping off a ledge. The Gourmet followed, unfettered. Another thing she would want to learn from her: grace under pressure. This was the Emperor she was cooking for! Who isn’t nervous about feeding the Emperor? Well, maybe The Gourmet, but what normal people aren’t nervous about the Emperor?

As they entered the banquet hall, they heard conversations already in progress. “But aren't you the least bit nervous?” who Gianna assumed was a noblewoman asked, “After everything that's happened?”

“You mean the wedding?” a spindly voice replied, “My cousin's apparent murder? An unfortunate misunderstanding, no more. Cold mead, hot tempers, these things happen.” It was clear he was The Emperor, but Gianna expected him to have a deeper voice. Maybe that’s more of her assumptions gone wrong.

“Quite,” a nobleman added, “Yet that recent business with the young officer. Maro, was it? How dreadful. The son of your commander, plotting your assassination.”

Gianna heard of that. Gaius Maro had been found dead in the Castle Dour barracks by an unknown assassin, an older Redguard woman, it sounded. Whoever she was, she revealed to the world he was a Stormcloak spy when Inspector Dorelia found the incriminating letter on his person. Hard to believe Ulfric would try something like this, but it did make the possibility of war more likely.

“Yes, an unfortunate turn of events, that,” the Emperor remarked, “But an isolated incident. And I have been assured the faults was with the man's son alone. Truth is, we are in no danger whatsoever. Killing an Emperor can be useful, but befriending one? Now that's beneficial, as I'm sure you'd all agree.”

And the minute they entered the hall in earnest, all eyes were on Gianna and The Gourmet. Gianna could barely handle this attention, but she’d power through it. It’s how she became a chef. However, the difference between becoming a chef and dealing with public attention is a wide margin. She’d deal with it, as badly as she could.

“Aha! Here we are,” the Emperor remarked, “Honored guests, I present to you, the Gourmet! Ah, the Potage le Magnifique. So delicious. My friends, as emperor, I of course reserve the right of first taste.”

The guests shared a laugh, but it didn’t calm Gianna’s nerves. At least all attention was on The Gourmet and not her, even if it was a mild comfort. Shakily, she drew a ladle of the Potage and poured it into the Emperor’s earthen soup bowl, as the recipe told. She only hoped he would enjoy it. She nearly died as he drank the fateful soup.

“Oh, oh how marvelous,” The Emperor remarked, “Just delicious. It is everything I had hoped it would be.”

At once, Gianna’s anxieties fell away as his words set in. She made something for The Emperor, and he enjoyed it! It was every chef’s fear and dream to cook for The Emperor, and she lived that dream. Whatever may come, if she ends up nothing but a pauper on the street with nothing but skeever stew on the menu, she will look back at this moment with a sense of pride even Ulfric Stormcloak could never achieve in his life.

That was, until he began to cough. And stutter. The color quickly drain from his face, and Gianna felt she mirrored his appearance. And just like that, he fell in his chair, limp. She had killed The Emperor.

“By the gods!” his bodyguards gasped, “The Gourmet and the chef have poisoned the Emperor! Get them!”

As they drew their swords, Gianna tried to defended herself with what words she could, even if futile. “What? No! No, you don't understand! There's been some kind of mistake! I- “

And before she could say another word, a sword was poised to cut her face open. She braced for death, but all that came was the splatter of some liquid. When she opened her eyes, The Gourmet was stood in front of her with a bloodied blade and the bodyguard on the ground dead. And just like that, she bolted out the hall.

All Gianna could do was curl into a ball. She killed The Emperor. She killed The Emperor. She killed The Emperor.

* * *

“That man was, by far, the most insufferable decoy the Emperor has ever employed.”

Never had such words completely destroyed Mikaela before. All throughout her life, it wasn’t anything anyone said that affected her. She found she was hardened to their concerns, their warnings. All the things that did destroy her life were the things that were left unsaid. Her love unstated, the goodbyes never said, the secrets lost. The shock of the Thalmor invasion on everyone she knew, and more’s faces.

But this was different. She had just slain who she believed was the Emperor. She bolted out of Castle Dour with the speed of a free man onto the battlements, but when she saw the Penitus Oculatus agents stood before her, she knew something was wrong. They weren’t attacking her, so something had to be wrong. Then Commander Maro said what he did, safely on the balcony over her. He was lucky she didn’t have her bow and arrows.

“I'm glad he's dead,” Maro continued, “Ah, but I'm even happier that you killed him. You, an assassin for the Dark Brotherhood, have just made an attempt on the Emperor's life. Would have succeeded, had it been the real man.”

Of course it was a decoy. Mikaela felt stupid for falling for it. No one of The Emperor’s acclaim didn’t have a decoy. She should’ve seen it coming when there was no taste tester at the banquet. But she was blinded. Vengeance was at hand, her hatred was to be quelled, but then this man poked the bear with a hot poker. He would feel the wrath Mikaela had to offer soon enough.

“Surprised?” Maro continued still, “So was I when a member of your ‘Family’ came to me with the plan. We worked out a deal, you see. An exchange. I get you, and the Dark Brotherhood gets to continue its existence.”

Mikaela found it hard to think which assassin was of such failed character that they would do this. Anrbjorn was a dull brute, not a mastermind. Festus was traditional and confrontational, but not a betrayer. Cicero wouldn’t care betray the Listener, no matter how mad he was. Nazir, Gabriella, Veezara and Babette were just as likely to do as not. The only one that she didn’t trust was Astrid; she would surely betray Mikaela for her little fiefdom in the dying Brotherhood.

“But you know what?” Maro ranted, “I've changed my mind. How about this? I kill you, and butcher each and every one of your miserable friends? Your Sanctuary's being put to the sword right now. That's what I think of this ‘deal.’ You killed my son! All of you! And now you'll pay the price.”

No surprise there. What else was the traitor expecting? You kill someone’s son then say, “Don’t hurt me”, you’re still going to beaten to death. Mikaela knew the moral compass of the Dark Brotherhood went magnetic left, but surely, they were self-aware enough to know how the world works. No, no they weren’t, or else Mikaela wouldn’t be here. No matter, one more person to feel Mikaela’s wrath.

“Kill her,” Maro said as he left the scene, “And make sure there's nothing left to bury.”

And so, the battle began. The Pentius Oculatus drew their swords on her, and in that time, one of their heads was already gone. The other one panicked, making it easier to throw him into the Castle Dour courtyard, splatting as he reached the ground. She had fought much worse than the likes of the Empire in her over thirty years a warrior, and she would not easily fall to the like of them.

Down nearest tower, Mikaela bolted. When she reached the bottom, five guards had spotted her. She ran through them, killing two, she believed. She wanted to run through the obstacles instead of around or over them. She didn’t have the patience for that, and it was how she was used to it. She couldn’t be held back in a prolonged fight, waiting for them to keep up with her.

Through the quickly slain city guards and crowd recoiling in horror, Mikaela bolted to the Winking Skeever. She had to make sure Nazir wasn’t caught in the fallout of this. He gave her the documents saying she was The Gourmet, and he was likely a victim in this. He deserved to know. And if he were the traitor, he would be killed quicker than the Sword-Singers of old.

Bursting through the door, the bar patrons screamed and hid under the tables. A sane response to a woman cover in blood, wielding a bloody sword running around. Well, except for a couple, likely mercenaries, or old men with the need to prove themselves still strong. They weren’t stronger than her steel. Even more reason to cower.

Mikaela started shouting, “Nazir! Nazir! We need to get out of Solitude!” No response.

Assuming something had happened, and not having the patience to walk up the stairs to the rented rooms, she jumped off a table and onto the balcony to the rooms. She picked herself up and checked the rooms. No Nazir, though not unoccupied. Perhaps it’s a good thing the guards would be investigating this place afterward. After that, she could see what the god Satakal would want to destroy all he created.

As Mikaela threw herself off the balcony to keep up her momentum, a familiar sight came into her eyes. Though he wasn’t in the closed helm or in any armor, she could tell from his height the way he carried himself. It was Ansgar Nordson. She saw him in that battle and knew she wouldn’t be able to fight him in single combat.

And with him was Mariqua. That man may be a fool, but his punch was too strong for Mikaela to dare try facing. Both of them together? Well Mikaela could only bolt, even if they did stand in the doorway.

She tried running through them, but the Khajiit’s punch was strong and threw her back. It was lucky though, as Ansgar’s blade would’ve likely killed her if it met its target. Lucky, or it was Mariqua telling her that she was free to run. That blasphemous cat was still on her side, even after all this time.

Without any armor protecting Ansgar, Mikaela aimed to cut his gut open as he picked it back up, but the Khajiiti punch knocked some sense into that. Looked like Mariqua didn’t want the swordsman dead either. An awkward situation, but Mikaela knew how to solve that and pushed him aside with her remaining strength as she bolted through the door.

And right into Legion zweihanders. They brought their swords down on her, but she dodged as fast as she could before bolting to the gate. Still, the idea of anymore Ansgars on the battle made Mikaela think the Legion would win the war to come.

Once out the gate, Mikaela run as fast as she could to dodge or outrun the arrows. As soon as she saw her steed, as of yet unnamed, she knew she’d be safe. Once she was on its saddle, she bolted to sanctuary.

Though, who’s to say it would be a sanctuary when she returned to it?

* * *

As everyone expected, Isran was hesitant to help in the search for Florentius. He talked about not trusting the man and that everyone should learn already that he’s not changing his mind. Then he changed his mind. That was shockingly easy. Agata supposed it had something to do with exploring himself, though she didn’t know if going with who you knew is better than going with someone new, especially this knew.

Florentius was last heard in the mountain ruins of Ruunvald. He was assisting the Vigilants of Stendarr in their excavation efforts, though since the rest of the Vigilant met a terrible fate, Agata expected nothing less than death in those ruins. A small blessing was that it wasn’t too far a journey to Ruunvald, just within the Rift and under the shadow of the eastern Velothi mountain range. Small, for a greater blessing would be that their fates don’t match the fate of their kin.

Agata rode with Bran following her at times and laying on her saddle others. However, her husky wasn’t her only company. She chose to ride with a partner, a Nord woman called Ingjard. She hadn’t gotten to know many of the other members of the Dawnguard and chose to pick one out. There were others, some that teach her a thing or two more, some that Agata could tutor, but she chose someone who was familiar enough.

“How did you join the Dawnguard?” Agata asked.

Ingjard shrugged. “Something bad happens, word spreads,” she explained, “More bad things happen, people worry. The more they worry, the more they talk about it. I've been hearing rumors for a bit now. I was glad to find out not only the bad rumors were true.”

“Huh,” Agata remarked, “and where exactly did you hear these rumors?”

“My local, the Braidwood,” Ingjard clarified, “After a long day on patrol, I would hide my uniform to protect the guards’ reputation and enjoy a pint of mead. It was always bittersweet when I had to hear whatever terrible news was out there. What territory the Imperials conquered, what stupid thing one of the Jarls said, and the rising vampire threat. At least I can do something about vampires.”

Fair enough.

Some off and on conversation continued until they reached the Ruunvald Excavation. There was no one at the entrance, just a tent and a wore banner. The two Nords dismounted and searched around for anything that could be used as a clue. It was just a formality, really; Agata knew they were probably all dead.

Ingjard found the journal of one Volk, and it was very telling. No one seemed all that committed to the excavation, save their leader, Moric. Moric seemed a little obsessed with the strange energies coming from the under the mountains and was certain this was the place to find it. When his team hadn’t emerged for three days, someone went in to look for them. When they didn’t emerge, Volk went it. And that’s where the journal ended.

It was clear something terrible was going on. All that Agata could do was to speculate as what terrible thing, specifically. The ruins could be full of draugr, a fell sorcerer could’ve settled in, maybe they just died in a cave-in. Whatever the reason, she would need to find Florentius, even if it were just to find his corpse.

With great hesitation, Agata, Injgard and Bran entered the ruins.

The cave itself was dank and dark, like caves typically are. The shaft was straight forward, but that wasn’t the most concerning part of the hole in the earth. It was the unfinished excavations surrounding them, with no sign of where the Vigilants would be. Nothing and no one could be found.

Well, I say “nothing”, but there was something Agata could find. There were journals kept by one Moric Sidrey of the Vigilants time in the ruins. By his own words, Moric was driven by his sense of destiny to find what secrets these ruins held. He found much here, many precious ores and gems and recovered ruins of the ancient world. They were doing quite well for themselves.

But then they began mentioning someone called Minorne. They referred to her as though she were a god, but Agata had never heard the name before. This Minorne was credited by Moric for bringing him to these ruins as though by divine calling. If Agata had to guess, it this was the reason nothing had been heard of them. Now, all the Dawnguards needed to do was gauge how dangerous Minorne would be.

Eventually, their journey down this abandoned ruin led them to the Vigilants. They were all in this wide room with a black robed woman at the focal point. To the side was a cage with a priest within who looked like the blood and vicious treatment didn’t affect him. The Vigilants were all in reverence of the black robed woman as she began walking towards the cage.

It was obvious the woman was Minorne and the prisoner of Florentius. No clue why he was prisoner, but Agata wasn’t about to question things.

The Nords drew their crossbows and slowly loaded them as Minorne walked approached the cage. The woman held out a razor, though at this distance, it could be anything else sharp. Agata and Injgard trained their bows on her. The moment she stopped, two bolts flew across the room and struck Minorne, striking her in the head and chest at one, flinging her at the wall.

The entire room erupted in shock, but it quickly died down into confused murmurs. If Agata had to speculate, they were under some fowl spell that clouded their judgement. It was quite apparent when she heard echo from here to Solitude, “What did I do with my life!?” Telling.

“You deal with the Vigilants,” Agata told her companion, “see if you can recruit them. I will secure Florentius.”

Injgard nodded and went into the crowd. She went unscathed, and as she was talking to them, Agata went to the man in the cage. Upon closer inspection, he was an Imperial man with a shaved head and a finely kept beard. And he was relieved, slouching as though the pain he’d been inflicted finally affected him.

“I knew it! I knew Arkay would save me,” he cheered, “I asked for help, and he sent you! You are a very welcome addition to this dreary place, my friend. I owe both you and Arkay a great deal. I'm sure I'll manage to repay him later, but you, what can I do to thank you?”

Ah, a religious man. “You can meet me at Fort Dawnguard, Florentius,” Agata explained.

“I suppose I could,” the priest replied, incredulously, “What, pray tell, is there?"

And now, she would hear the same thing she always hears when she says this. “Isran needs your help.”

“Isran? My help?” he questioned in shock, “Is this some kind of a joke? Did Arkay put you up to this? Isran's done nothing but mock me. He's never given me the respect I deserve.”

After seeing a mortal referred to as a god, it was strange to hear a Divine referred to like a man, “Please, we need your help,” Agata respectfully asked.

“Look, I've just gotten myself out of quite a mess here, in case you haven't noticed, and while I appreciate your help, I,” Florentius went on before he turned to his side like someone else was talking to him, “What's that? No, that's not what I,” He acted like he was cut off, “Yes, but,” cut off again, |Are you sure? Really? Fine.”

Florentius turned back to Agata and said, “Arkay says it's a good idea for me to go. I don't agree, but he's not the sort of fellow you can just ignore. I'll see you at Fort Dawnguard, then.” Before Agata could say another word, he said, “Don't worry, Arkay will show me the way.”

And he left. Agata decided that if Florentius really was a sword-swallower, that had little to do with Isran’s opinion of him.

* * *

Rena entered the Hall of the Dead, where she would find Styrr. The place was a grim building, but few structures in Solitude were in anyway cheery. The bricks graying darkly from age gave a forbidding atmosphere to the hall, but Rena wasn’t here for a review. There was a task at hand, and she wasn’t one to shirk such things.

She entered the hall and the interior was actually quite warm. Given they were in winter’s wind, she would’ve guessed a place like this would be painfully cold, even in the height of summer. Not only was the air as warm as the height of spring, but the decorations as well. As much as the dark gray stone followed her inside, Rena saw the wooden furniture bouncing the light off and onto the offerings of wheat, bread and cheese and it felt a lot less cold than it should’ve.

There wasn’t anyone here but one. He was an older bearded man in a robe of the Divines, orange as anything. If Rena had to guess, he was Styrr.

As Rena approached him, he remarked, “You must be the one Falk spoke so highly of. Welcome.”

“Falk sent me to talk to you about Potema,” she stated.

“Ah, Potema,” Styrr remarked, “Former queen of Solitude and one of the most dangerous necromancers in recorded history. She was responsible for the Empire's near collapse almost five hundred years ago. I believe I have a book about her-.”

“And now that Potema has returned?” Rena interrupted. She didn’t need a history lesson on someone she knew would kill them all if given the chance.

The old priest nodded. “Summoned in spirit form is not raised from the dead,” he explained, “She'll need help before she can return to the living. For the moment, the Wolf Queen has retreated to a place filled with dead eager to serve her. She has gone to her old Catacombs. A few days ago, one of her servants busted through a wall into the Temple of the Divines. We'll need you to go into the Catacombs themselves.”

Thought questionable sending only one person, Rena wouldn’t argue. It was her duty to keep the Wolf Queen from returning and had failed once before. If she failed again, it would cost Rena her life. That was her choice; no one else would have that choice if she failed.

“I can do that.”

“Good,” Styrr remarked, “Being at the summoning created a connection to Potema, you are the one to do this. I can provide you with help for her minions.”

Out from his robes, he took an amulet of Arkay. It was a string of orange beads leading out of the necklace and hanging from it was the sigil of Arkay as a red jewel surrounded by a star. Styrr placed the amulet around Rena’s neck and let it rest under her armor. She had heard that such amulets allow for one to resist deadly wounds and improve the vitality of the wearer. There was even a rumor it allowed the wearer to better defend and attack the undead, but that was to be tested soon.

“As for Potema herself,” Styrr continued, |find what's left of her body, likely a skeleton. Remove it from the catacombs and bring it back to be sanctified by Arkay.”

Rena nodded and left the priest’s company to enter the catacombs. In them, she found webs of all sorts littering the ancient ways. It was clear there was wind in the place, maybe not even a person down here in many a year. The only thing down here was death. And Rena, who would be inflicting death upon the dead. Something about that broke Rena’s mind a little, but she soldiered on anyway.

Despite that, Rena would likely be more comfortable with Ansgar at her back. The sword arm was the obvious one, but he was also clever. Even with her snark, Rena knew he wasn’t no dull blade. He wasn’t that wise, but whatever riddle or puzzle that may be in this bloody tomb. Rena admitted to not enjoying the pointless ways the ancients rigged their grave to kill anyone who delved into them.

That thought was interrupted by the guardians of this tomb. From the walls came draugr with swords drawn. If Rena had to guess, these were Septim dynasty soldiers tasked with keeping necromancers from desecrating her remains, what with their ancient armor that looked like a part of the Legion. Their skills and unity were not with them, as they didn’t fight as one. Each individually attack Rena, but Rena showed them each her Legion steel blade.

Deeper into the catacombs, there were vampires, given their inhuman appearance. Rena considered it possible that Skathi’s joining of the Dawnguard was a wise choice. They looked starved, so maybe they had been in a long time, or simple hadn’t the opportunity to feed. Their hunger would likely make them feral, with a lack of strategy plaguing their mind while a lack of restraint keeping them dangerous. This wouldn’t be an easy fight.

However, there was a lit jar lamp hanging over their heads, and puddles of oil at their feet. The opportunity clear, Rena released an arrow into the jar, and it broke apart, letting the candle inside fall into the oil. The oil was clearly still good, as it was set ablaze and burn the vampires, causing them to screech with inhuman sounds. The noticed Rena and tried to attack her, but burning folk aren’t the lot, especially against a steel sword.

Deeper and deeper into the catacombs she went, slaying draugr and vampires all the way. That was up until she found this bizarre puzzle of levers and doors. I would try to explain it but suffice to say it was the frustration of Rena throughout. Eventually, the way cleared, and the fighter was allowed to leave. One thing she wondered was why in the world of the living and the worlds of the dead are there puzzles in tombs?

At a certain point, a voice came. It was familiar to Rena, deep and long. It was Potema.

“You've arrived at last,” it spoke, “The hero who prevented me from being bound returns to my fold. I have much to thank you for, little one. When you die, I will raise you and you can take your place by my side. You'll serve me soon enough.”

As the last word was spoken, Rena found her way into a pit of dead bodies, though not of her own choice. If she did have a choice, it surely wouldn’t be to come here, as they began to rise to slay her. Her Legion steel was quick to slay one after another, but as one fell, another took their place. They were a never-ending horde. Rena was ready to accept this as the way she died.

But it wasn’t. They were slain and didn’t get back up after a while. Rena wondered if this meant she was to die elsewhere. If not here, then where? Did the Divines have another fate in mind? Hopefully, it was just to die later in the catacombs.

As she went deeper in, Rena heard Potema chimed in with, “Not much further. Come, little thing. Serve me in death.” This was far from encouraging.

When she came upon a chamber with many a draugr sat in chairs. Potema chimed in again to say, “You've come far, mortal, but can you stand against my inner council? Let's see!”

The draugr rose with swords drawn to face Rena. She had to assume these were her advisors and generals, but just some dead people would be just the same. It mattered not, as they were easily slain. At the end, the battered Rena watched as a ghostly apparition arose from the throne at the focal point of the room. The fighter had to assume that this was Potema’s spirit itself, displeased with her servants’ failure.

“Don't applaud yourself too soon, worm!” she snarked.

Storm Atronachs were summoned as the ghost’s hands were lit with lightning. Rena blocked the Atronach’s attacks and simply awaited their time on the mortal realm to fall, even if it wasn’t advised. They only lasted a minute before a lightning bolt struck the shield from Rena arm, shooting pain through it. Rena noticed that the ghost’s hands were lacking the same sparks as before.

Knowing she had not time for anything, Rena charged the ghost and let the sword strike through it. The dissipated in an instant, and Rena thanked Arkay it was so. Left on the throne was a skull with a bejeweled crown. Assuming it was Potema’s remains, Rena took it and began to leave the catacombs. Wounded and ragged, the fighter would curse every god in the heavens if this weren’t the end of this.


	18. Chapter 18

When Jeanne delivered the news of Fastred’s love life to the priestess and it seemed to please her. Perhaps she did the right thing, but maybe there was a wrong way to resolve it. No matter, as the priestess gave her two more tasks to complete. In her own words, “Time was running out.” Perhaps she wanted things done before the new of the new year.

The first task she described as this: “Embers lie nestled in stone, needing only fuel to bloom a flame that will warm all around them. Go to Markarth. There, you’ll find Calcelmo, wise, acid, and reclusive. Help him to emerge and state his intentions.”

Markarth was one of the places it was hardest to return to. The only way she did return to it was when she was under the influences of alcohol and a Daedric Prince. She might’ve found the new regime perfectly fine on the surface, but she worried it would prove worse on closer inspection. Perhaps her shame still lingered. That was likely it.

And of course, it was on the other end of the province. That made a more dangerous than simply the other side of the hold, which Jeanne could typically handle. So, Jeanne decided to hire some help. She took Mjoll’s advice and hired the mage Marcurio. And you know what? That might’ve been a mistake on Jeanne’s part.

Marcurio couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He was an incredibly talkative fellow, even when there wasn’t much to talk about. Jeanne wouldn’t typically hang around his lot. Granted, they both had interest in esoteric and cosmological things, but their personality were far from similar. Jeanne didn’t typically seek out people to talk to, and he was just that sort of person.

No matter, as she eventually came to stand in the shadow of Understone Keep. Not as a conquer, not a barbarian, but as a guest. Her mage robes made others believe Jeanne was from the college at Winterhold, going around for apprenticeships. And you know what? The Stormcloaks already took the city, she had nothing to fear in her mind. So, why was she so hesitant?

Jeanne considered that it was because she wasn’t worthy. She had fought to take Markarth and failed. Even if she didn’t know where that hidden army came from, she could’ve fought them and maybe won. She felt guilty for choosing Ulfric’s safety over his ideals, as much as that sounded like she was willing let him die. She didn’t wish him dead, but they wanted to liberate Skyrim from religious oppression, and that shouldn’t stop for one man, even Ulfric. She chose a man over a province. Was that right?

It shouldn’t matter; Jeanne was here for Lady Mara, not the Stormcloaks. Whatever happened in the past shouldn’t matter to the man she was tasked with helping. So, she entered the keep.

Jeanne asked around beforehand and Calcelmo was within the keep. After asking around the keep, she found that his laboratory, where two wizards worked with Dwemer trinkets. One was old, the other young, both were Altmer. Neither seemed gripped in the throes of forlorn love, nor did either seem bitter, but Jeanne approached the young Elf on the assumption he had to Calcelmo. The old man had to have been married, surely.

Before she could say a word, the old man took quick note of her. “What are you doing here?” he barked, “The excavation site is closed. I don't need any more workers or guards.”

Jeanne was a little confused. “Excavation site?” she asked. Certainly, the Jarl of all the Reach didn’t live in ruins not fully explored.

“Nchuand-Zel?” the old wizard asked as though it were obvious, “The ruins underneath Markarth? The wealth of artifacts that I've based two human lifetimes of research on?”

Jeanne was wrong; the Jarl of all the Reach did live in ruins on fully explored. “I’m just here for Calcelmo,” she clarified, “I have business with him.”

The old wizard looked at her with a bitter shock. “I AM Calcelmo!” he declared.

Jeanen was very, very wrong. She assumed she was dealing with a young man in love, not one so old, as she thought falling in love was for the young. Had this man felt love before, and that love died? Had he divorced is old love? Had he ever felt love? These questions weren’t ones she’d asked a day ago. She’d never heard of the idea of old men in young love.

“You idiot. Do you even know who I am?” Calcelmo ranted, “The most recognized scholar on the Dwemer in all of Tamriel, and you people keep bothering me! I,” he then caught his rage and became somewhat timid, “I'm sorry I, I got too excited. I'm in the middle of some incredibly stressful work, and I shouldn't have yelled. How can I help you?”

Jeanne was a little timid to say anything after that. Have you ever been shouted at by a grandparent? And that feeling you get when told off? Yes, Jeanne was well acquainted with it before and now again. Count your blessings if you’ve never felt that, as it almost paralyzed Jeanne from doing anything to improve this old man’s situation.

But still, she collected herself. She’d fought worse, especially in Markarth. “I’ve been sent by Mara to aid you,” she declared.

Calcelmo’s timid became blushing shame. “I was beginning to lose faith that any would come,” he admitted with some trepidation, leading Jeanne away from most people, “Ah, you see, I’ve been thinking about Faleen quite a bit. You know her?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know her,” Jeanne replied. This sudden change in his acrid demeanor was surprising.

This change was surely noted by Calcelmo as well. “Well, suffice to say she is resplendent, but not without resolve,” he recounted with barely restrained admiration, “Striking, in all senses. The trouble is that I can’t seem to speak around her.” He admitted that with a schoolboy’s shame.

He continued, in much the same tone, “My mouth goes dry, and I start to shake. And, she’s in Solitude now, so I’ve not had much practice with her. I could never hope to approach her.”

It occurred to Jeanne that this Faleen was likely a member of Jarl Igmund’s court that went into exile in Haafinger after the ceasefire. It wasn’t required that he leave, as it wasn’t for Jarl Laila to leave the Rift, but they did so anyway. She supposed it was the awkwardness of being the old Jarl still being around with the new Jarl in power, but Dengeir of Stuhn was still in Falkreath when his nephew was in power. Jeanne couldn’t be certain as to the reasoning.

But there was some deduction as to Faleen’s place in court. It couldn’t be a thane or a just another local noble, as they wouldn’t be forced to leave if the old Jarl left except in solidarity, and Jarl Igmund wasn’t that popular with others. His steward had been executed for treason, with no replacement noted of late. If Jeanne had to make a guess, Faleen was the Jarl’s housecarl. This wouldn’t be easily done by the new year.

“First, you need to have something to talk about,” Jeanne suggested, as petty a suggestion as it was.

“That’s the trouble,” Calcelmo admitted, “I knew Faleen from the keep, but I have no idea what sorts of things she likes. It’s not a simple matter. I could offend her fairly easily by bringing up the wrong subject. I’ve seen it happen before.”

Jeanne never thought of that before. She hoped she wouldn’t think of that again. “Is there anyone who knows what she likes?” she suggested.

“There is one,” Calcelmo answered with some trepidation, “Yngvar. He’s quite popular with the ladies.”

Jeanne twitched at the everything having to do with ladies’ men.

“Thankfully, Faleen is not quite his type,” the old wizard continued with relief, “but they’ve been friends for some time, and he may have some idea. Please, ask him what she likes. It’s my only chance.”

Jeanne nodded and left the laboratory. Hopefully, one of the things Faleen liked was Calcelmo.

Notably, through that entire discussion, Marcurio was silent. Why was that? “You didn’t have much to say,” Jeanne remarked.

“Oh, I had a lot to say,” he replied, “I enjoy researching the ancient Dwemer, snarking off old men’s crony old ways, and fair few other things about that. It’s just that I know not to say it in front of someone who was going to beat me.”

Fair.

* * *

Arcturus knew this mission couldn’t be admitted to anyone. They were in Stormcloak territory, and they wouldn’t react well to the Penitus Oculatus being in Falkreath. Even if Ulfric knew they were hunting the Dark Brotherhood, he still wouldn’t be understanding, no matter the result of the hunt. He might’ve been the one to hire them in the first place, but no matter; a war would come of this for certain if Ulfric caught wind of it.

They had found the black door to the Brotherhood’s sanctuary. It was a stone carving of a large skull over a skeleton and five other skulls. Arcturus wasn’t certain if this was symbolic or just dark imagery for dark minds. It didn’t matter. The door would only open to those who spoke a certain phrase few could ever knew. Fortunately, Arcturus was given this phrase to lead his men to sack the sanctuary.

As he approached the door, a dark heart did beat, but he was uncertain where it laid. It didn’t sound like it came from a mortal, let alone a living thing. Instead, it sounded like it came from Arcturus’s own mind. What was this dark magic? And from that heartbeat came a whisper from a raspy voice that could never come from a mortal’s mouth.

“What is the music of life?” it asked.

Shaken from his fear, Arcturus realized this must be the prompt for the code phrase. “Silence, my brother,” he replied. These awful words disturbed him, but why? They were just bad poetry, right?

“Welcome home.”

And with that, the door was open. Once it opened, Arcturus motioned to his men to bring the torches oil. It may be the early days of winter, but fire still had its power. They would put these assassins to the torch and sword for their evil. They would pay for their murdering through the years, and their attempt on the Emperor’s life. This was a long time coming, and everyone knew it.

They descended into the sanctuary and were first met by a blonde Nord who looked surprised to be there. Astrid, Arcturus believed the commander said her name was. She was the one that organized the Brotherhood to be sacked, according to him. She was not meant to be show any sort of special treatment for that. In fact, his words were, “Treat her as both a murder and a traitor, for she is both for her actions.”

So, Arcturus had something prepared. As Astrid drew her dagger, an arrow flew across the room and into her shoulder, and her body went limp. It was doused in draught meant to paralyze. Then, four men took her up by her limbs as a fifth covered her boy in oil. Finally, Arcturus dropped a torch on a paralyzed traitor as the men dropped her. They left her there, screaming. Where does he get these ideas?

One may look at this and assumed Arcturus was as wretched as his enemies. Not in his eyes. His ancestors had always protected the Emperor from threats, no matter the cost or question. His name even was a family name first used by one of Uriel Septim VII’s Blades. His ancestor failed to protect his Emperor. This Arcturus would not allow that to happen.

The next assassins to appear were mages, a Dunmer woman and an old Nord man. The Penitus were trained to fight mages, so this would not be difficult. When they threw their flames and lightning, the men lifted their shields and approached with incredibly prejudice. The mages’ terror was as clear as a Thalmor armor on a summer day and they bolted. They would not so easily escape, as the squad were sent to kill them.

The next was an Argonian man, which tried to kill Arcturus specifically. This Argonian was fast, cutting through his armor like butter, but not fast enough. Three swords pierced his scaly hide from three Oculatus. Arcturus gave the final blow and slit his throat open. There was no honor amongst thieves, so why would murderers care?

By now, the sanctuary was picking up flames. The initial orders were to smoke them out, but Arcturus wouldn’t be entirely following that. Certainly, there would be a squad at the door, preventing any from leaving, but he was leading his men to destroy the Brotherhood with his own blade, in their own home. He didn’t want to risk there being some secret hole in the wall for them to hide. He wouldn’t be so sloppy.

As his men began to search for more assassins, Arcturus heard screams akin to those that Astrid did scream. He looked and saw a beast that he could only describe as a werewolf. It was tearing through his men like paper. They were never trained for Hircine’s monstrosities, nor could they be. Lycanthropes were supposed to be extinct, at least in the Imperial Province. The Brotherhood truly was a den of monsters.

Before Arcturus could give another order, the werewolf looked at him with a rage he expected of no mortal. It filled him, for one time in his life, with fear. He bolted, not knowing where he would go. He could hear thundering steps of a beast as following him, and he had no clue where he was going. It was a true nightmare for him. He never had nightmares as a man, none he couldn’t control. It was true fear.

Until he came upon a certain room. There was an open metal casket stood at its feet, and in it a corpse. But it wasn’t a corpse, not really. It may be withered and practically mummified, but there was something living about it as well. While the fires would take it away, it still didn’t change that such an abomination exited.

When the werewolf entered the room, it looked shocked by something in the room. Maybe the corpse. No matter, as Arcturus took this opportunity to test the beast’s hide. He drove his sword in the beast’s chest, and it screamed like an animal. He wouldn’t let it chance living, so he took his dagger and began stabbing its throat until it stood making noise. It fell without fuss.

But when it did fall, there was someone that filled Arcturus with more fear than the werewolf did. A Redguard woman with two blades and once white shirt caked in blood, her bearing it like war paint. The rear guard couldn’t have possibly let someone pass alive unless they were been slain by something as fear as the vampire. And this was a mere woman.

Before Arcturus could react, this woman’s sword flew across and gave fatal blow. Threw steel sword and steel armor, her swords cut deep, and he could instantly feel his death approaching. He fell and the last thing he saw was the woman enter the casket. Perhaps she would be safe there or be cooked alive. Arcturus’s final thought was the wish that it was the latter.

* * *

As it turned out, Jeanne had seen Yngvar before. He was that mercenary a guard was asking in front of that house of Daedric influence. She had asked around and he tended to stand at the corner around the house, just stood there. No idea why, whether it was something to prove or just his own manners. Maybe both or neither.

When Jeanne approached him, he gave an interesting greeting. “Bloody enough for you, outsider?”

If this was an attempt to ward off people that he didn’t immediately like. If it weren’t that Jeanne was on a mission from Mara, she’d definitely leave him alone. “Excuse me?” she asked.

“Markarth,” Yngvar clarified as short as a Dwemer, “Is it bloody enough for you?

“I think this man’s drunk,” Marcurio whispered to Jeanne. Likely not, given the lack of smell.

With the lack of blood since she’d arrived, Jeanne was satisfied with it. “Bloody enough,” she confirmed.

“Then turn around and come back where you came,” Yngvar spat, “City doesn’t need you, doesn’t want you.”

Jeanne was genuinely confused by the question. How was she supposed to answer? Never in her life had she been asked that question, especially right off the bat like that. Was it a local thing she wasn’t well informed of? It didn’t matter too much, as she doubted the question was all that necessary to do Her will, but she did need Yngvar’s advice.

“I’ve heard you might know what Faleen likes,” Jeanne remarked.

The mercenary looked like he was about to leave when he heard that. “What? Why, are you,” he looked the stocky Breton, “interesting?”

Jeanne could only answer honestly, seeing as how she’d never met the woman. “It’s not for me,” she clarified, “It’s for Calcelmo.”

Yngvar raised an eyebrow. “Calcelmo?” he questioned, “Is he interested in Faleen? That sly old codger.” He found a smirk in that thought. “I should have guessed. I’d say, ‘Good for them,’ but they’re on different ends of the province.”

“I’ll let them deal with the distance,” Jeanne replied. She was going to put them together, not be responsible for maintaining their love.

Yngvar shrugged. “Between you and me, she could use a bit of warmth,” he remarked, “As for what she might like, I didn’t tell you this. Faleen likes to act tough, but she’s got a soft spot for, of all things, poetry. You know, I took some classes at the Bards’ College during my youth. Poems come in handy when wooing.”

Jeanne was well aware of that. She had heard many a bard’s courtship was a showing of their way with words. There was a stereotype about them easily getting to woo women for one night of Dibellan pleasure and no true love. Any lovestruck fool would be lucky to even have a hint of that inspiration to use when wooing the object of their desire.

“There’s a poem I once used on an older lady of Rorikstead,” Yngvar continued, “I can change it to be about Faleen, if you’ve got some gold.”

Jeanne wasn’t well off, but after the recent windfall, she did have some coin. She wasn’t altogether ready to give her money for this, but this was Mara’s work she was doing. Many people have given time, life and things that could enrich their lives for sake of Her. If Jeanne wasn’t willing to give her money to grant an old man some happiness, not even that much gold, Mara’s word was dead to her.

“Are you prepared to receive my golden words?” Yngvar asked, holding a small book he took from his bag.

Jeanne took out half of what was a bard’s commission was worth in High Rock, two-hundred gold. “I’ll buy it,” she said as she handed it over.

Yngvar looked surprised but took it in stride. “Wonderful,” he remarked, putting the gold in his bag, “I’ll write it out, so you won’t forget.”

He sat on the ground and uncorked an inkwell. He took out a quill and started writing out his poem, apparently from memory. How he could remember in such detail something that should be forgotten the instant it was useless was a question Jeanne wasn’t ready to discover the answer to. Within around fifteen minutes, the work was done.

Yngvar took the paper he used out of the book and handed it over to Jeanne. “You should probably give to Faleen,” he remarked, “Wouldn’t want old icebrain stumbling over the words.”

Jeanne nodded and left his corner. To further discuss it, she tried show the poem to Marcurio. “No,” he quickly denied, “I don’t wanna read something I know was meant for an old woman.”

Fair. Jeanne didn’t really want to read it either.

In honesty, Jeanne wasn’t about to go to the other end of the province for the sake of Calcelmo. She may be on a holy mission, but you could easily hire a courier for this. Or she could have Calcelmo deliver it herself. She was under the impression you worked for love, not let someone else butter the bread so you could eat it.

Jeanne returned to Understone Keep to Calcelmo’s laboratory. The old man seemed impatiently waiting for her return when she saw him. At her sight, he left what he was doing and went to greet Jeanne.

“So,” he asked, “what did you learn?”

“Faleen loves poetry,” Jeanne answered, holding out the poem, “Here’s some Yngvar gave that should do the trick.”

Calcelmo took the poem and began to read it. His eyes were intensely looking over every letter on that poor paper. It seemed as though he wanted to understand ever word of it before saying another thing.

He finally looked up after a minute. “I’ll leave for Solitude immediately,” he declared.

And he left the laboratory. Jeanne admired that gumption, even if it might be misguided. She hoped the old man would find love with Faleen, as it would probably make him less crotchety. That wasn’t something Jeanne could control; only something to encourage. With her doing Mara’s will, Jeanne’s encouragement may yet be worth more than any bard’s poetry, no matter how inspired.

* * *

Nazir didn’t know what was happening. All he saw was Mikaela riding the fastest he’d ever seen a rider bolt. Surely the horse exhibited the spirit of Shadowmere herself. But still, Mikaela wouldn’t be riding that fast if there wasn’t something wrong. No rider rides that fast.

When he arrived back at Falkreath Sanctuary, he saw horrifying sight. There was a cart with barrels of what he believed was oil, judging from the one that spilled on the ground before it. But that was before he saw the bloody corpses trailing to the sanctuary’s open door. He’d expect Arnbjorn to have done this scene, but there were no claw marks on their bodies. Swords did this.

Following the trail of corpses, he found familiar ones. Gabriella and Festus were in the alchemy lab, their heads cut from their bodies and wounds in their chests. Veezara was less badly cut, but still dead. In the Night Mother’s room, there was Arnbjorn’s lycanthropy corpse lay at the entrance next to a bloody Penitus Oculatus with a shattered blade. The Night Mother’s casket was missing. What had happened here?

But when he found Astrid, he couldn’t stand to look. Her entire body was burnt to the point that Nazir was uncertain if she still had her clothes. And yet, she was still alive. Her blue eyes stared at him, unsettling and horrifying. She laid in a poorly arrange circle of candles. He couldn’t help but thing of the black sacrament but had no knowledge if it was such a thing.

“Get me the Listener,” was all her horrible new voice said. A bloody rasp that sounded like her voice would give at any moment.

Nazir left, looking for where Mikaela, the supposed Listener, would be. Surely her corpse at least would be around here somewhere. He never really care if she called herself Listener or not, as Astrid still gave him the jobs he would give to others. But now, they may need a new leader. And maybe a return to tradition was what they needed if there was even a “they” left.

And there was. He spotted Babette, still alive, stood over the pond in the middle of the sanctuary. It was mostly for decoration, but the Night Mother’s casket wasn’t. Immediately, he bolted to drag the casket out. He used to believe there wasn’t a point in carrying around some corpse, but if Astrid was certain there was a listener, it may yet be relevant.

“Hurry, Nazir!” Babette chimed in as he dragged in out, “She’s in there!”

Nazir couldn’t believe this. “I'm going as fast,” he said between gasps for air, “as I can, you stupid she-devil. I don't see you helping.” This thing was heavier than a cart of the dead.

“I'm not exactly built for manual labor,” Babette snarked back, which Nazir couldn’t really argue, “Now come on, you've almost got it.”

“One more,” he sputtered, “pull.”

He groaned as he pulled the metal casket out of the lake. Once it was out, it opened, and Mikaela tumbled out with bloody clothes. She stood up and seemed a little out there.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Nazir said, “Slow down. It's all right. You've been through a lot. Maybe you should just sit down for a bit.”

The Emperor,” Mikaela sputtered out, “it was all a trap. Someone set us up.”

“Considering most of us are now dead, I assumed as much,” Nazir remarked, “And before you ask, no, I don't think it was you. Well, maybe I did, but the trail of corpses leading to their casket sort of eased my doubts.”

And without any prompt, Mikaela began walking away from them. “I don't know, Babette,” he whispered to Babette, “Looks like she may have suffered a head wound. Best not let her out of our sight.”

They followed her up the stairs to Astrid’s alcove. It was where her burnt and broken body laid. How Mikaela managed to find her was surprising, but the way she looked at their leader was troubling. Contempt beyond that of Dunmer for their Nord neighbors in Windhelm. More than Legion men for the Thalmor. More than anything you were told to hate; this was a person contempt. One that made Nazir worry why.

“Alive,” Astrid rasped, “You're alive. Thank Sithis.”

“Astrid,” Mikaela growled. She saw the woman burnt a crisp and still acted like she was the enemy? Was she?

“Please,” Astrid shushed, “There is much I have to say. And not much time. I'm sorry. So deeply sorry. The Penitus Oculatus, Maro. He said that by giving you to them, he would leave the Dark Brotherhood alone. Forever.

So, that was it. That’s why Mikaela was assigned to kill the Emperor. Nazir was certain this was some political move on Astrid’s part, as it surely fit that description. Mikaela was a threat to Astrid’s position as leader, and she didn’t take kindly to perceived threats. And if Maro knew where the sanctuary was if they even spoke together, she surely thought this would deal with both at once. But no, both had just become worse.

“By Sithis,” Astrid cursed, “I was such a fool. All of this, it's all my fault. You are the best of us, and I nearly killed you, as I've killed everyone else.”

Mikaela said nothing. Her hatred was clear on her face. Even Astrid, burnt and dying, had the clarity to see that. Nazir himself felt anger for her betrayal, but he was still full of fear for the hate. And yet, it looked as though it fit her face. He feared anyone whose hatred so fit their face.

“Don't you see? It was me,” Astrid continued to confess, “I set you up, wanted you dead. I betrayed you, the Night Mother, everything I hold dear. And now Maro has betrayed me. I just wanted things to stay the way they were. Before Cicero, before the Night Mother. Before you. I thought I could save us. I was wrong. But you're alive! So there's still a chance. A chance to start over, rebuild. That's why I did this. Don't you see? I prayed to the Night Mother! I am the Black Sacrament.”

“What are you saying?” Mikaela questioned. It looked like she knew the answer to her own question, but she still wanted to hear it from Astrid.

“I'm saying you were right,” the burnt woman continued, “The Night Mother was right. The old ways, they guided the Dark Brotherhood for centuries. I was a fool to oppose them. And to prove my, sincerity, I have prayed for a contract. You lead this Family now. I give you the Blade of Woe, so that you can see it through. You must kill me.”

This was a shocking thing, but Mikaela didn’t seem that shocked. She just took the dagger laid beside Astrid, the Blade of Woe that their leader used for years and stabbed its owner with it. She died instantly, with perhaps a word on her tongue, but Nazir couldn’t hear it. All he could think of was the killing of one leader by their knew Listener. At least, he hoped Mikaela was their Listener.

* * *

Jeanne had ridden out of Markarth as soon as possible and into the night. Mara’s tasks took Her faithful servant into Whiterun hold, into the tundra it was so well known for. It was no cave or village she was sent to, but a monument in the middle of nowhere. It wasn’t as though there was anyone there, but Jeanne was told to expect that.

She was told specifically to “Take this symbol of Mara. She will guide you to the wandering souls whose love was so great that their intertwinement binds them to this world.” She was told to explore how “a strong love can withstand storms and even survive death.”

The symbol was an Amulet of Mara. It was the Nordic design, rather than the Bretony amulet she had owned for years. It was bronze with sky blue jewels in wreaths and circles, while the Breton design was simply a metalworked version of the Imperial symbol. These Nord ways were quite different from High Rock.

As Jeanne donned it, Marcurio remarked, “An amulet of Mara? Looking for someone special?”

The Breton cringed. To her understanding, Nords used these to declare their intent to marry. “No, Marcurio,” Jeanne sighed, “I’m not ready for marriage yet.”

The mage just shrugged and smirked. Jeanne wasn’t so light about his remark.

The monument, called Gjukar’s Monument, was simply five rocks stood around one tall as two giants. Jeanne didn’t know what war this was erected for, nor what battle was fought here. They had to have won the war, but no monument was ever erected for any reason other than a lost battle. She pondered what history forgotten happen here.

At first, it wasn’t obvious what Jeanne was supposed to do here. There was no one here and love traditional takes place where people are. But when she turned the corner, she found a shocking presence. A luminescent woman with clothes and manners no different from a commoner. A ghost for certain. Jeanne wasn’t sure she’d ever encountered a ghost, but she had been blackout drunk a few times, so only the gods knew for certain.

Jeanne saw that the woman was looking around for something or someone. “What are you doing?” she asked. Perhaps an innocuous statement was better than fright in this situation.

The ghostly woman turned to Jeanne, trembling. “I’m searching for my Fenrig,” she quaked, “He was marching with Gjukar’s men, who they say were wiped out here. I’ve turned over ever body, though, and I can’t find him.”

While ghosts were something that she had no personal experience with, Jeanne was well acquainted with theories around them. One was that they were spirits with unfinished business and must fulfill it in death when they left it in life. This woman couldn’t be reunited with her husband, who was surely dead after the centuries, perhaps millennia, it had been since the battle, even if he didn’t fall by the sword.

“Please help me look,” the ghost begged, “He has a bright red beard and hair.”

Of course, some ghost cling to a lie they hold as truth. “The last battle here was centuries ago,” Jeanne explained. She perhaps that facts would release her from this world.

“I don’t think that will help,” Marcurio whispered. It didn’t.

“Are you a fool?” the ghost baulked, “Look at the bodies around you. Even if you’re blind, surely you smell the blood.”

It occurred to Jeanne that the ghost saw a reality that the living wouldn’t. To Jeanne, it was a few days before year 202 of the Fourth Era, but the ghost saw the fields as all those unknown years ago. It was likely the ghost had been killed by a looter or the like and didn’t understand she was dead. If Jeanne wanted to release her from this world, she would need to find Fenrig, as some theories go.

“Come,” the ghost begged, “help me search for Fenrig.”

The woman began looking around the fields, looking at things that Jeanne didn’t see. Jeanne meanwhile had the amulet to guide her. It pulled her like unseen hands elsewhere than where the ghost was searching. She followed it, assuming this was Mara guiding her to the ghost.

The theories around ghosts were running through Jeanne’s head as she followed the amulet. One was that the gods, one or any, could choose who needed to linger here and for what reason. Jeanne pondered if Mara had picked this ghost to stay but couldn’t fathom why. Did she need to find her husband’s surely decayed corpse? What was Her will? Was it even Mara or was Jeanne asking questions by presuming answers?

These ponderings were interrupted when Jeanne found a glowing light past the river. She was far from where the monument stood. Jeanne approached the light and found a ghost of a man. He was in armor and had a beard, but Jeanne couldn’t say if it was red. Still, what was the chances two unrelated ghosts haunted the same field? It was worth asking about if anything.

“Fenrig?” Jeanne called. The ghost turning to meet her like anyone would when their name was called. “Your wife is looking for you.”

The ghostly warrior was in shock. “Ruki?” he gasped, “Where is she?”

“West,” Jeanne explained to the best of her recollection, “in the plains over the mountain.”

Shock and fear were discerned from his phantasmal face. “We’re expected to fight there tomorrow,” he gasped, “Gjukar elect to camp here for the night. I don’t like it, though.”

Jeanne wondered what Fenrig could tell her. What was the war he fought it? What histories have been lost due to incompetence or biases? She would ask, but she knew Fenrig would likely be useless. History is recounted by historians, and he was the ghost of a warrior; few of either were morally or academically viable for such things.

“Let me take you to Ruki,” Jeanne offered.

“If she’s come this far from home, it must be important,” Fenrig remarked, “Lead on. I just need to report back to camp by sunrise.”

Jeanne wondered if Fenrig knew it was night or if he just thought it was night. She also wondered how he died. Perhaps it was at night and the camp was ambushed as most slept. It would make the monument slightly inappropriate if that’s where they thought the battle was fought.

The live Breton and the ghostly Nord made the way across the plains back to the monument. Ruki was still there, searching through things Jeanne couldn’t see. The ghostly woman was looked up from her work, presumably hearing their approached, and her face lit up (It’s an expression; she didn’t literally light up. She already had a bright face as a ghost).

“Fenrig!” Ruki cried with joy, “You’re alive!” She ran to her husband and embrace him with the strength of ten bears.

The ghostly husband looked as though he was pleased but confused as well. “Of course, I am,” he remarked, “What brings you here?”

Ruki pulled away to face her husband. “I had heard Gjukar’s men were wiped out,” she explained with a blubbering voice, “I came to find you.”

“But that battle isn’t expected until tomorrow,” Fenrig questioned.

And before another word could be said, to two were lifted into the air. The ghostly couple were shocked, as was Jeanne. Was this supposed to happen?

“Ruki” Fenrig said in fright, “what’s going on?”

“I’m so confused,” Ruki admitted, “What’s happening?”

And just like that, they rose into the stars without another word. Jeanne knew they were Aetherius, perhaps Sovngarde. She supposed Mara knew that if they left apart, they wouldn’t be ready to face the hereafter, but together would embrace it with open arms.

And just like that, Jeanne’s tasks were done. The priestess had made it clear this would be the last of Mara’s bidding she would need of her. But to Jeanne, there was one more thing to do. Whether it was for love or passing fancy would be hers to discover. She hoped she would find love, but that was her mistake to make.

* * *

The journey up the Jeralls was a challenge. Skathi found that once you climb mountains as long as she has, you never truly forget how to do it. Her challenge came in making sure Serana, who never did such before, didn’t plummet to the ground. Serana encouraged using necklaces she got a hold of that could cushion the fall, but Skathi never used them before, so chose not to use them now.

Towards the beginning, Skathi was find the right rock by first nature, but was distracted by Serana’s mistakes. Out of the corner of her eye, the outsider would see her fellow vampire place a hand on a weak rock or a foot where it would slip under her weight. And mind you, Skathi was used to doing this with the utmost concentration, so turning to correct Serana was dangerous every time she did it.

Of course, what followed was expected, but frightening all the same. Serana’s foot slipped and her grip gave way. She began to fall for a moment, but Skathi was quick enough the grab her wrist, keeping her from a painful death. Skathi pulled the vampire up to her chest and let her hold onto the Dragonborn’s neck.

“Hang onto me,” Skathi ordered, “I can carry your weight to the top.”

Serana held on with arms and legs wrapped around the Dragonborn’s torso. In all honesty, Skathi wasn’t altogether used to carrying someone on her person. It definitely meant she had to pick her stones with even greater care than before. One wrong stone and they would fall to their deaths, but who can say the best stone for their survival was the right stone?

At this point, Skathi figure some conversation would ease Serana’s mind of death by height. “Does it bother you that we're working with your father?” she asked. If anything were going to take her mind off this situation, it would be that.

And it did. “I figured it would be more of an issue for you,” Serana remarked.

“After what learned in the Soul Cairn,” Skathi said idly, “I think I’m gonna kill him.”

Serana pulled her head back to look at Skathi. “Don't tell me you're that naïve,” she balked, “When I left the castle, there were over a thousand vampires in Skyrim, and only a hundred were under my father’s command. Ten years before, there were ten thousand and he only commanded a handful. Half of those deaths were his doing.”

Those weren’t good numbers. “Still,” Skathi remarked, “I’ve fought the worst. You may have noticed, dragons came back.” Serana nodded. “Well, I don’t know if you know Alduin’s name, but I did manage to kill him.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Serana snapped, “Alduin can’t be killed.”

“Well, tell that to Alduin,” Skathi replied. She didn’t like boasting, but it was true.

Serana was silent the rest of the way, probably frowning all the way. With a fair amount of climbing, Skathi and the still frightened Serana reached the cliff of the Ancestor Glade. As soon as Skathi stood on solid ground, her passenger let go and gasp in joy upon landing on the ground and not dying. The outsider plopped down and rested for a moment before proceeding into the cave.

The way was green, but not a mossy green. It was a warm green of spring with grass and trees and bushes. It may have been dark, but Skathi could see it well enough.

At the path’s end, you could hardly tell it was nightfall. The green from before was brightened by what seemed to be sunlight, but it was far from daybreak and it didn’t burn to be under the light. At the of the glade was a patch of land surrounded by a hot spring, with a tree Skathi had only ever seen here, though she may be mistaken. It was the tranquil place she remembered, but now it was better.

The vampires walked down the stairway that had always been there and trudged through the warm water, Skathi taking her boots off, and came to the island. There, there was a rock formation that held a draw knife, which Skathi always wondered what it was for. She took it and hoped she would be able to use it right.

She walked to the tree and began observing how she could cut the bark she needed. She could feel Serana’s impatient gaze behind her. It didn’t help, but Skathi proceeded to start cutting. She cut in one clean stroke a piece of bark the size of her palm. It was surprisingly easy, though Skathi figured it made enough sense, given monks were supposed to be able to do this.

Skathi began to walk around the glade into swarms of moths that flew there. When she came to civilization, Skathi learned most moths were dusty little critters that would fly without care. These ones, though, were graceful in form, both their elegant bodies and their flights that were as amazing as the glade itself.

The moths gathered around Skathi as though she were a flame until perhaps a hundred of them followed her. She lead them to the island, where she took out each Elder Scroll with care and set them to her side. With a sigh, she opened the first Elder Scroll.

Skathi had forgotten how these readings could go. She was hundreds upon thousands of years and centuries of histories and futures at once. What was before was as stable as a stone bridge, but what was next was as rickety as an old wooden bridge with rot. She was reminded that there was certainty in the past, but the future was always going to be the moment she makes.

She read the second. And then the third. And then it was she saw it. She was the goat in the southwest and the wolf in the northwest and the road between them. There was a path the road took further west, into the mountains. It was there, this Darkfall Cave, where they would find their quarry. She couldn’t tell if that was the end of the path or merely the beginning of another, but she knew this was the path she was on.

After she closed the last Elder Scroll, she felt a haze in her vision. For a moment, she was frightened that she would be blinded, but then it lifted, and she could see Serana in front of her and the moths were dispersed.

“Are you okay?” Serana asked, putting a hand on Skathi, “Almost thought I lost you there. You went white as the snow.”

Skathi brushed off the hand without even noticing at first. “That felt strange,” she stated in a voice as horse as when she Shouted too much.

“I could see it in your eyes,” Serana remarked, “You looked about a thousand leagues away.” She quickly shook off this curiosity and asked, “What about Ariel's Bow? Do you know where we can find it?”  
“It's in a place called Darkfall Cave.”

Serana breathed a sigh of relief. “Then it's almost over. We can finally rewrite the prophecy as we see fit. Where is this ‘Darkfall Cave?’

Skathi took out her map show and said, “The scrolls gave me its exact location,” pointing to where she saw it.

The vampire nodded. “Then let's get going. I want to get there before my father has a chance to track us down.” She stepped aside, raised her hood, and said, “After you.”

Skathi went to leave the glade, hood raised in suit with Serana following her on her way. As she was about to enter the cave entrance, a sudden force staggered Skathi and sent her off the side of the cliff. She landed in the geyser and in the moment before she lost consciousness, she saw it was a crossbow bolt in her chest. Just as well, she forgot her boots.


	19. Chapter 19

Never had a copy of Immortal Blood ever saved a life. It was a dark tome about the nature of Vampire clans across Tamriel, not information one would always need. Granted, it may inform someone in the right place at the right time, and some had even discerned the art of fist fighting from it, but it was merely a book with unpleasant contents. However, it’s many pages made it perfect for blocking a crossbow bolt.

By the time Skathi awoke, Serana and the attacker were long gone. She couldn’t find Serana’s corpse, so it was doubtful her death was the purpose of the attack. It was most likely the Dawnguard trailing them, and they knew about Auriel’s Bow well enough to know these were the key. To the question of how, well, Skathi didn’t put the necklace that cushions falls in her satchel. Yeah, that was how Serana got out alive.

Skathi travelled down the mountain carefully, like she did long before. Her wounds were manageable, but she knew she needed to find a safe place to rest. There were wild animals abound, even if most were in hibernation at this point, and bandits would be harder to fight with a wound in her gut, even as a vampire. With the sun out, she knew her chances out here were numbered.

It was then did she find herself on a familiar path. She didn’t remember where it lead but knew she had taken this path once before. It felt dangerous, but she couldn’t spot any beast and murderers. She followed it as far as it went until she was on the main road. She followed the round west, it being just as familiar as the path before, but no less did it feel dangerous.

Eventually, Skathi came upon what she knew was a town. She looked upon the purple banners of elk and remembered that this was Falkreath. This was her home. This is where she killed her first man.

She ran into the town, a hand on her blade the entire time. It looked no different than when she was a child, though the guards were dress in Stormcloak blue instead of Falkreath purple. And because it was no different, her parents’ general goods store, Gray Pine Goods, was still there. She ran through the door, hoping to find her parents, but instead finding an unfamiliar man at the counter.

“Well met,” the man greeted.

Skathi couldn’t figure why he was there, and her parents weren’t. “Where are the Wolf-Runners?” she asked.

The storekeeper looked confused. “They were executed by the Jarl for killing one of his men and trying to eat him,” he answered grimly, “I took over the store after my tour of duty.”

This shouldn’t have been surprising. Without the culprit at hand, the Jarl would’ve made a cruel example of them and how criminals should never run. It happened before. But it wasn’t any easier to accept.

Skathi ran out of the building she once called home, holding came tears her father would never approve it see from her. She ran into the graveyard, the graveyard she knew her family had been buried for generations. She looked for her parents’ names, Haren and Kili. She found the row the Wolf-Runners used for hundreds of years, but she didn’t find her parents at the younger end. She couldn’t find her parents’ grave.

Skathi was devasted. Her parents were dead because of her. They were killed for her crimes and their remains were Arkay knows where. She couldn’t find any way to through the blame at someone else. But what caused her tears was that Agata. Agata’s life was ruined because of her. Her parents were important, but her sister was the one person that made sure she lived a happy life. It hurt to even be back here in Falkreath. She wanted to leave, but she knew she had to mend her wounds. Divine knows why she would want that.

Skathi tried to pick herself, stumbling out of the graveyard, when she saw someone else in the yard. There was a priest, a man, and a woman together. The man and woman were in grief while the priest gave his words, whether comforting of confirming, of the passing of a loved one. Soon enough, he was over, leaving the couple to stand over the grave in mourning.

Skathi came beside the man and asked, “Who died?”

The man didn’t turn his head, focusing only on the grave. “Our daughter,” he answered, wiping away tears, “Our little girl. She hadn't seen her tenth winter.”

A tragic death, that was. Probably how her parents felt about Skathi before the end. “How did she die?” she asked.

“She was,” the man was lost for words, “he ripped her apart. Like a sabre cat tears a deer. We barely found enough of her to bury.”

It would have been one thing if the girl had died of sickness. It would’ve been worse by a beast. Even worse it were an accident. And yet, the worst had to be the truth: fowl murderer by a beast in the flesh of a man.

“Who did this?”

“Sinding,” the man spat, “Came through as a laborer. Seemed like a decent man. He's stewing in the pit while we figure out what to do with him, if you've got the stomach to look at him,” he turned his head to face Skathi, but didn’t quite looked directly at him, “What could drive a man to do something like this?”

Finally, Skathi could do something right in Falkreath. She left the couple to mourn while she went to the barracks to kill Sinding. She remembered the prison and the barracks were the same building and she knew the way well enough. When the guards tried to stop her, she just walked passed them and brushed off their grips.

When she came upon the pit, it was a chamber of stone so taller than most buildings, with bars keeping him from walking away. In the middle of the room, standing in a pool of water, was a shaggy man in ragged clothes. It could only be the beast Skathi intended to kill.

“Come to gawk at the monster?” Sinding snarked.

“I hear you killed a little girl,” Skathi seethed.

The beast sighed. “Believe me, it wasn't anything I ever intended to do. I just,” he lost his words, as though it was hard to explain, “lost control. I tried to tell them, but none of them believe me. It's all on account of this blasted ring.”

“What ring?” Skathi asked.

Sinding pulled a silver ring with emeralds and wolf heads off his finger and held it out. “This is the Ring of Hircine,” he explained, spitting the name, “I was told it could let me control my transformations. Perhaps it used to. But I'll never know. Hircine didn't care for my taking it and threw a curse on it. I put it on,” he closed his hand in anger, “and the changes just came to me. I could never guess when. It would be at the worst times. Like,” a tear built up in his eye, “with the little girl.”

Perhaps the beast assumed this would help explain things, but it didn’t. “What kind of transformations?” Skathi asked. She had a hunch.

“I don't suppose there's a point in keeping the secret if I'm going to die in here anyway,” Sinding sighed, “I'm sure you've heard of men who shift to beasts under the influence of the moons. I am one of them.”

“A werewolf. It's my secret, and my shame. That's why I wanted the ring; it was said to give men like me control. Now I may look like a man, but I still feel the animal inside of me, as strong as ever.”

Made enough sense. Hircine’s domain included werewolves and similar such creatures that hid under the guise of men. Skathi knew Hircine as the Daedric Prince of the Hunt, but only in the past few months. Hunters would whisper his name as Vigilants of Stendarr passed on the road. She didn’t need a god guiding her arrow, but they sure did.

“What will you do now?” Skathi asked.

“I've been looking for a way to appease Hircine,” Sinding explained, “There is a certain beast in these lands. Large, majestic. It's said that Hircine will commune with whoever slays it. I tracked it into these woods, but then had my,” he paused for the right words, “accident with the child. I want to beg his forgiveness. Give him back the ring. But while I'm stuck in here, the beast wanders free.”

It was then Skathi made a choice. A grim choice. “I'll take the ring to Hircine,” she declared.

Sinding’s eyes shot in surprise and looked dead at Skathi. “Oh my,” he exclaimed, “You would do this for me? Here, take it.” He went up to the bars and handed the ring over.

He continued, “I don't want anything to do with this wretched thing anymore. Seek out the beast. He wanders these woods. Bring him down and, well, the Lord of the Hunt should smile on you. I wish you luck but should leave here while I still have my skin. Should our paths cross again, I will remember your kindness. Farewell.”

The beast stepped back into the water and showed his true form. A tall wolf creature with massive arms and dark fur. He gripped the walls around him and began to scale until he was surely out of the pit.

There was only one reason Skathi did this: it had been too long since she hunted. This would not be easy prey, but she had slain dragons before; this wouldn’t be so dangerous. The ring? Well, she’ll deal with that first to give Sinding a head start. He would need it.

* * *

Before Jeanne set out on her tasks, she learned from Aerin where he found Mjoll. He said he found her in the ruins Mzinchaleft while he was traveling through the Pale. He apparently used to be a traveling merchant, but the roads aren’t safe anymore. How he discovered Mjoll and her situation wasn’t something he disclosed, but he swears it wasn’t by any design. Jeanne would be the judge of that.

Jeanne tasked herself with retrieving Grimsever, Mjoll’s sword. She believed Mjoll deserved something good for trying to protect Riften from the Black-Briars’ ill corruption, however futile it was. She needed to have something good come Mjoll’s way, so Jeanne thought this was the least she could do. It may be a difficult task, but not one she was unwilling to do.

And not one Marcurio was opposed to either. His interest in the Dwemer made for good company in this ruin. His spells would be most appreciated in the depth of Mzinchaleft. He would surely enjoy it and be able to help Jeanne through the madness that were these places. Hopefully, they would be able to survive together.

The ruins aboveground had clearly become infested with bandits. They tend to congregate in places people leave alone, like cave and abandoned forts. Jeanne presumed Mjoll didn’t leave this place like this, since it would be both out of character for her and dangerous to leave to ruins in this state.

The mages’ approach to the converted ruins, sword and spell in hand, was to draw them out. They stupidly raised arms against, not knowing she had slain what felt like a hundred of their numbers before and likely a hundred again. They charged with warhammers and blades, only a few staying back with bows and arrows. For the bandits charging her, she gave a firebolt that set the lot of them ablaze. Jeanne cut their throats in mercy and charged the remaining bandits so they may at least go to the hereafter together.

Upon entering Mzinchaleft, Jeanne was met with the familiar sights, sounds and smells of Dwemer ruins. There was always a disgusting stench that was akin to a chamber pot after a banquet of Redguard cuisine. Marcurio didn’t have as much of a problem, but he might have more experience with this. Jeanne presumed it came from the Falmers’ numerous sources of stench, the chemicals left behind by the Dwarves that had since gone off, and a lack of airflow through these underground ruins. She could turn a holy man to a degenerate with this abomination to every god.

Deeper into the ruins, she encounter another pair of bandits, their skills apparent from the lifeless Dwemer automatons at their feet. One was dressed no differently from the other bandits, the other was in iron plate with a shield in hand. It was easy enough to set the weaker one ablaze, but the brute’s shield wouldn’t prove as easy. Still, Jeanne was used to fighting his lot. She bolted at him, getting blocked by the shield, but she pirouetted away before he could hit her with his axe and used the force to cut his head off. Bandits were nothing new to her.

There would be many more bandits that called this place home and all dispatched by Jeanne and Marcurio’s expertise. Eventually though, she did find active Dwemer automatons. They were fighting bandits that presumably thought they’d find their fortune in these depths. Jeanne tried that and it didn’t work out well. She chose to let the automatons wipe out the bandits before she fought them, and she didn’t have to wait long for that.

Now, Jeanne had less practice against the Dwemers’ creations, but her nor Marcurio were inexperienced. She was wise enough to set them alight before they got too close, hoping there was an exposed mechanism that would allow them to light the ancient oil. A couple exploded from this heat, but the remaining three were just heated. A calculated risk on their part part.

The trick when fighting the Dwemer Sphere automatons was their arm-mounted crossbows. If they were loaded, Jeanne and Marcurio could have been killed easily, or at least gravely injured. If not, they would use them as bludgeons on their opponents. Fortunately for the mages, the crossbows appeared to be empty. Without their ammunitions, they would have a good old fashion brawl.

The automatons rushed Jeanne, but a quick smash to the closest one disrupted their advances. Their bronze materials were too strong to cut through, so it was just a matter of hitting them hard enough to break something. She kept a-smashing automatons’ chassis and weathering their bludgeoning. She was the Breton of One-Arrow-Short; she handle even beatings of even Dwemer contraptions.

Eventually, the attacking automatons were destroyed, left in ruins ruined. Jeanne helped herself to a healing potion as she thought through if she should continue. She could feel bruises and broken bones, possibly worse. There was no profit in this. No one knew she was doing this, so no one would judge her for opting out of this. All but her. She had enough reason to hate herself; she didn’t need a knew reason. So, what if she was threatening her life? She’d gone through worse, some of which while she was drunken.

Jeanne kept descending into the ruins, finding many a Falmer and Dwemer contraption lingering in this place. They were easy enough to dispatch, even with her injuries. She fought through the ruins and even the underground of Blackreach.

Eventually, she came upon a workshop with Dwemer Centurion in an apparatus. Jeanne remembered that Mjoll lost Grimsever against a Centurion. Seeing as how this was the first of its kind she found in the ruins. She was certain she’d find the sword here.  
But by Jeanne’s presence, the Centurion awakened. From portholes in the walls came Dwemer Spheres. Jeanne knew this wouldn’t be an easy fight, so chose a spell she’d yet to use effectively: Flame Cloak. Fire engulfed her but didn’t burn her. Instead, it dressed her clothes and blade in flames. When the first automaton attacked her, she cleaved its chassis open and jammed her blade through the hole. She would find this a hard fight, but not impossible.

Jeanne dispatched the other Sphere easy enough, but the Centurion was her challenge. What she knew of them was that they aren’t easy to kill. There were little to no gaps in the armor, no exposed mechanical bits, no chance the limbs could shatter. That was where the Flame Cloak came into play. It would be easier to break the chassis, hopefully even disrupt it’s in workings. It was her only chance.

The Centurion brought its hammer-hand down to smash Jeanne, but she was just lucky enough to avoid it, Marcurio’s lightning distracting the creature. She first tested her fiery blade against the arm, which gave way with some effort. The automaton barely seemed to notice. Instead, it lifted its arm up to strike with the axe, but Jeanne didn’t wait and stabbed its torso. It seemed to notice that, so Jeanne struck again before it could strike her. Something must’ve caught, as the automaton exploded from within and fell limp on the floor.

Jeanne was shaken from the blast, ears ringing, but not dead. She looked around the workshop in a daze, certain she’d pass out at any moment. Marcurio was perfectly fine, pointing to his ears as though he was trying to say he was deafened by the blast, which was fair. However, Jeanne did find a Glass sword, a bluish green blade with a gilded hilt. On the blade was an inscription in the finest handwork.

It read, “Grimsever.”

“Thank Mara,” Jeanne muttered. She truly did.

* * *

After a brunch of the shopkeeper at her parents’ shop, Skathi set out into the woods. It had been a long time since she went on a hunt, and the forest air on her skin was fantastically chilly. It gave her a subtle thrill to the hunt, but she didn’t need it. Hircine’s beast was only an appetizer, for a werewolf is a prize any hunter would fawn over.

Every step Skathi made feel faster than when she was ever on a horse. Her feet on the ground across the wild terrain awakened her instincts. The stillness of the forest was understandable since summer was ended a way away, but a stark reminder of how different things were between civilization and the wild. Some people have the one thing they can never forgot how to do. Skathi had the hunt.

Though that may have something to do with easy prey. She came upon a familiar beast, a white stag, taking a drink from a pond. She had always seen this beast and thought to majestic to slay, as it always carried itself with grace and was always a rare creature in the wild. However, if any creature in the woods was going to be Hircine’s beast, it was going to be this one.

Skathi nocked an arrow and sent it loose into the stag’s head. It missed and the beast began to bolt. Skathi cursed that arrow and sent another loose into the stag’s neck, which landed. The hunter snuck over to the possible carcass and checked. It was dead, like any hunter should. A surprising feat that the arrow should hit, as the stag had been so fast.

Squatted over the elk, Skathi found herself instinctively skinning the beast. This was something she knew she couldn’t do under the Jarls’ laws, but she had always done it before. What she hadn’t done before was being watched over by the ghost of that elk.  
“Well met, hunter,” it greeted, Skathi pulling herself up to full height.

“Didn't I just kill you?” the hunter questioned. She calmed herself for a moment and knew this had to be Hircine if anyone.

“And skillfully, too,” the elk added, “I've been watching you for ages, it seems. You have the makings of a fine hunter. You may even be my champion. Perhaps.”

Skathi had been at the beck and call of many over the past few months, so her natural question was, “What would you ask of me?” She had followed the Blades and the Greybeards and cannibals even; what would be better about following a Daedric prince?  
“Your fealty is precious to me,” Hircine explained, “I will make good use of it. You bear my ring. The one who stole it has fled to what he thinks is his sanctuary. Just as a bear climbs a tree to escape the hunt, but only ends up trapping himself. Seek out this rogue shifter. Tear the skin from his body and make it an offering to me.”

A morbid task, if any. Sinding was a living Nord, one who perhaps had a family that loved him once. But he didn’t have that family anymore, nor could he ever return to them after becoming a werewolf. And he killed a little girl for no better reason that blind rage. You know Skathi’s thoughts; she was going to kill him regardless of what Hircine wanted.

“It shall be done as you ask.”

If a stag could smile, this one did. "Fly, my hunter. There are others who vie for my favor. A bit of competition. Don't dally while the prey flees.”

And the ghost disappeared, leaving Skathi with its carcass and a pressing question: where was Sinding? She was given no directions, but she didn’t always need them. Skathi was a hunter and a wild woman that traveled the Jerall Mountains with no need to look at a map. She once tracked an eagle in a storm; she could certainly track a werewolf.

The hunter returned to Falkreath and went to the back of the barracks. There were tracks leading out of the well that was beyond what any animal or man could’ve made. They went up the cliff face behind the yard. Skathi followed them as well as she could, over rock untamed. She followed them out of town and went into the wild.

Skathi was pleased. She was on a hunt, probably the most dangerous hunt of her life. Well, Alduin was her most dangerous prey, but that was no hunt. This was a hunt. And she was holding a grin on her face her entire time.

* * *

Ravani had never been to Markarth before. Her former comrades, Rena and Ansgar, had fought during the Battle of Old Hroldan back in the day. It ended up for naught, as the Stormcloaks were given the city as part of the peace treaty. Their military had even come to supplement the hold guard’s decreased numbers. It wasn’t something that put Ravani’s mind at ease, as the right person could point to her and say such things as, “Legionnaire!” “Traitor!” She hoped it wouldn’t be that easy.

Before she entered, a green-cloaked guard said, “Welcome to Markarth, the safest city in Skyrim.”

Well, that proved to be a lie. As soon as Ravani entered, she spotted a man with a dagger trained a woman with her back turned to him. It doesn’t matter the context; that’s not a good thing. Ravani took her own dagger and charged at him, putting it in his back instead. That caught everyone’s attention, but they couldn’t miss the fact he was armed as well.

As the man fell to the ground, he whimpered, “I die for my people.”

His people. That could only mean the Reachmen. The Forsworn. Those who rejected the authority of Nords for the old ways of their ancestors. Through the years, they had proven violent beyond reason. It may be that they had a point, that the Nords’ authority was forced upon them and every Reachman feels the sting of prejudice in their life, Ravani didn’t care much. They were little more than jumped up bandits in her eyes. Old Hroldan didn’t help.

The crowd had turned to panic. As Ravani noted, this had not happened in a mere hole in the ground; this was in the market. When you kill someone here, people talk. The guards came to investigated things but didn’t approach Ravani. Perhaps they wanted to listen to someone else’s opinion of what happened, not hers. Dunmer prejudice or standard procedure? Who knew?

Someone did approach Ravani, however. A man with straw hair and facial tattoos. A Reachman, Ravani assumed. “Gods. A woman attacked right on the streets,” he muttered, “Are you all right? Did you see what happened?”

“I must have missed it. Sorry,” Ravani snarked. She was visible putting the dagger in the man’s back. How could he have missed that?

“You don't have to say sorry to me,” he remarked, seeming to miss the sarcasm, “I just hope the Eight bring us more peace in the future.”

Before Ravani could leave, the man continued with, “Oh, I think you dropped this,” handing over a piece of paper, “Some kind of note. Looks important.”

Ravani carried no such notes. She wasn’t the type to write something down if she could just remember it. “Is this your note?” she inquired. He had to be sneaking her a letter. That was the only explanation she could think of.

“My note?” he feigned ignorance, “No, that's yours. Must have fallen out of your pocket.”

There wasn’t much time to argue, as the man left. It was clear to Ravani that the note belonged to him, but why did he want her to have it? Did this have something to do with the man with the dagger or with why she was in Markarth? Only he knew.

She read it and it only said, “Meet me at the shrine of Talos.”

Said shrine of Talos was an interesting story. As the Great War raged, the Forsworn took advantage of everyone’s busyness with the Aldmeri Dominion and retook Markarth under Madanach, the King in Rags. They reigned until the Jarl reached out to Ulfric. The shrine was his payment, a place for Talos worshippers to pray in peace. This was not to be, and the shrine was enclosed. With the return of Ulfric’s men, the place began its renovations.

Ravani took a small while to reach the shrine, as it wasn’t an entirely obvious where it was. It may have been a few months since they regained the city, but they should’ve figured out how to get to it. In fact, it was difficult to even navigate the city streets. How did Rena and Ansgar even defend this place if they couldn’t even find their way around?

When she did find the tattooed man, he was stood at the feet of the shrine. He clearly wasn’t comfortable in its sight. Since he was a Reachman, Talos was Tiber Septim, and Tiber Septim conquered Markarth originally, it was akin to Ravani in the presence of the likeness of the King of Argonia. No matter how much they distanced themselves from their kin, they would never feel comfortable around icons of those who would antagonize them just for their birth race.

“I'm sorry to drag you into Markarth's problems,” the tattooed man admitted, “but after that attack in the market, I'm running out of time.”

“I'm not doing anything yet,” Ravani explained, “I don’t even know your name.”

“You want answers? Well so do I,” the man explained, “So does everyone in this city. A man goes crazy in the market. Everyone knows he's a Forsworn agent. Guards do nothing. Nothing but clean up the mess.”

Ravani could easily see that. It was a Gray Quarter hallmark. No one would want that, even if it meant you could take advantage of it. “I’d still like to know your name,” she remarked.

The man sighed, “I’m Eltrys.”

“And you want me to figure out what's wrong with Markarth.”

Eltrys nodded. “Basically, yeah,” he admitted, “This has been going on for years. And all I've been able to find is murder and blood. I need help. Please. You find out why that woman was attacked, who's behind Weylin and the Forsworn, and I'll pay you for any information you bring me.”

It wasn’t really Ravani’s business to get involved in this. This was likely years of complex race relations and the like until this situation came about. She was also here on her own business, important business for the fate of the Thieves’ Guild. However she was paid, she still had business in Markarth, and that couldn’t be ignored.

“I’m not here for money,” Ravani informed him as she turned to leave, “You’ll need to find your Forsworn on your own.”

“What if I helped you into Calcelmo’s research?” Eltrys inquired.

That made Ravani stop. This hadn’t been the first time this month someone correctly pegged her for a thief. She noted how criminals walked with a certain desire to not be seen, even in a crowd, and she was certainly a criminal. What’s more, she dressed as a tradeswoman to dissuade suspicion, which is even more suspicious when you consider they neither travel nor are often Dunmer in the Reach. She stood out like a Nord’s bandaged thumb; the minute you see it, you can’t unseen.

The only uncertainty was how Eltrys could tell her outlaw’s stance, and how he knew her quarry was the old man’s materials. Perhaps he’d gotten used to seeing her lot pass through town or had associated with thieves at some point in his life. And really, if a traveling thief goes to Markarth, there’s only real reason they would come here. It certainly wasn’t the locals.

“Who was Weylin?” Ravani inquired, “Where did he live?”

Eltrys smiled, perhaps acknowledging the fact he had an ally. “He was one of the smelter workers,” he explained, “I used to have a job down there myself, casting silver ingots. I never knew much about Weylin, except he lives in the Warrens, like all the other workers.”

“And what do you know about the woman from the incident?” Ravani continued.

“Her name’s Margret, I think,” Eltrys explained, “She's not from Markarth. The air about her screamed ‘outsider.’ Visitors to the city usually stay at the Silver-Blood Inn.”

That was all Ravani needed to know. Anything else was likely irrelevant. Who Margret was likely wasn’t as relevant as whoever told Weylin to do this, so she’d check in the Warrens. She almost felt back for selling out someone of equal destitute as she was, back in the day. But she became a thief, no bandit to get coin. He was an idiot, she was a businesswoman. He was an idealist, she was getting paid.

* * *

The tracks led Skathi north across the Bleak Falls Mountains. She had no clue if that was their name; it was just what she called them in her head because they had the barrow atop it. Funny how the only mountains the Nords named was the literal “Throat of the World” and the rest of the mountains were named by their neighbors. Skathi was certain that book about Nord literacy doesn’t fully cover Nord intelligence. No shade, they just didn’t name a mountain that has been in their territory for over a millennium.

Skathi was led to a place she only heard about in rumors and hearsay: Bloated Man’s Grotto. There are those that said a Talos worshipper ran and hid here to escape the Thalmor, but he chose to turn himself in to keep from the place becoming desecrated. No one was candid with why he chose this was sacred ground, especially with a name like that. Perhaps when she entered, it would become obvious, she thought.

It wasn’t entirely obvious. There was growth, there was trees and bushes, but the sky foretold of death with a blood red moon that leaked into ever crevasse of the night. Did this place despise the blood lost here? Or was this Hircine’s influence? Perhaps without it, she would come to know why this place was considered sacred to some.

And someone had besmirched that sanctity. Someone had set up camp here with a fire burning at the center, but that was just discomfort compared to the dead. Carcasses with hunter’s gear were strewn about the grounds, ripped apart by some mad creature. Sinding was here.

“Has the Bloodmoon called you, fellow Hunter?” a voice came from one of the hunters.

Skathi turned to see a Khajiit still alive, but his clutched wounds made it clear he wasn’t for long. “What happened here?” she asked.

“The prey is strong,” the hunter groaned, “Stronger than the hunters. But more will come. Bring him down, for the glories of Lord Hircine.”

And just like that, he died, succumbed to his wounds. Skathi knew this was dangerous prey. This just told her the same thing again. This was no white stag or dragon. This was a man and beast in the same body. It would be vicious.

Skathi hid underbrush and snuck through the growth, keeping an eye on the sky all the while. The grotto was no cave, but more of a small valley. If Sinding were to attack from above, he may well be able to and cleave Skathi’s head clean off. She was a hunter prepared to be the prey at any moment. If she died, would Hircine declare Sinding his champion? Was this all a game?

No, Sinding was game. And Skathi had hunted bigger game than him. She wasn’t about to-

“You! Why?” cried Sinding’s voice.

Stood against the blood red sky, the werewolf was atop a cliff that overlooked Skathi’s position. It was good that sentiment kept her alive, however brief. It was obvious he was resorting to dialogue first, if only because she was meant to do a favor for him. His naivety would keep Skathi alive.

“I've been told to kill you,” Skathi explained neutrally.

“And I would deserve it, wouldn't I?” Sinding questioned, “I can't stop you if that's what you want to do. Hircine is too powerful. But if you spare me, I can be a powerful ally to you. And I would promise to never return to civilized life. I know now that I can't live among people.”

Skathi locked her bow, as he said this, ready to strike the beast. But then something in his words made her reflect. This man, this beast, did he not have a similar sin to her? They both killed someone and fled those that who wished to make them pay. Sinding was a werewolf, a creature of Hircine, and Skathi was a vampire, a creature of Molag Bal, both were Daedric Princes. They were not so different, in this regard.

But their differences were also evident. Skathi was a child that slew the Jarl’s man to protect her sister and tried to eat the corpse, though she questioned that detail after becoming free from Namira. Sinding tried to contact his bestial nature and failed, costing the life of a little girl. But was Skathi the one to judge his nature? He didn’t intend to kill her, and he knew he was cursed to never control his bloodlust fully, so he was excluding himself from civilization. He chose exile over execution.

Was Skathi really one to judge? She set him free with the desire to hunt him like a deer, but he was still a person underneath the fur. In that prison, she could’ve just let him die, but now she had no choice. Either let him go or kill him. In the end, Skathi knew she shouldn’t have gotten involved in the first place, but she couldn’t condemn him for his attempt to live. Not unless she would condemn herself first, which she did, but not him for trying or for the sin he didn’t want to commit.

“I will spare your life,” Skathi stated.

“Thank the gods,” Sinding cheered, “Now let's deal with these other hunters. We hunt together!”

The two exiles sent themselves into battle with the hunters that came. And many did come. ‘round a dozen hunters in leather armor came with bows and daggers in hand. They were hardly a Dragonborn and a werewolf though, so it was obvious they wouldn’t find victory here. Though they would try, perhaps for Hircine’s favor, perhaps to have the honor of coming back home again with a prize for the mantel, both were fool’s needs.

Skathi let loose a number of arrows that cut through their leather jerkins with ease. Sinding slashed and threw their enemies with resolve and strength she’d never seen. The hunters still tried to overcome him and did try to kill Skathi with their own bows, but that was a fool’s gambit. Skathi had survived because of her skills with the bow, they found a living off of theirs. Skathi slew beasts they could only prey they’d never encounter, they were afraid of fighting bears and trolls.

By the end of it, Skathi and Sinding were stood over corpses spread across the landscape like ribbons. Arrows stuck out of them like a volley of the finest Legion archers had come through here. Claw marks like dragon’s were left on many of them like Alduin himself had come back from the grave to wreak havoc. It was a glory sight of gore that honestly made Skathi sick, but she understood a sense of pride in the deed she did. This werewolf would live in peace from now on because she helped him in his hour of need.

“The last of the hunters is dead,” Skathi remarked.

“Thank you for your help,” Sinding nodded, “I will make my home here, away from anyone I might hurt.” If Skathi had to say, she say he was smiling, but she didn’t know facial expressions that well, let alone those of a werewolf.

As Sinding climbed into the woods ahead, the sky returned to the calming night sky it had been. The red was surely the Blood Moon she’d heard Hircine put in the sky, but she didn’t think of it until now. She reckoned it was because she was a little consumed with bloodlust at the time to think straight. Not a great excuse, not by a longshot.

But before her came a ghostly figure, the white stag once again. Surely, Hircine had returned, none to pleased with his prey taken from him. Skathi wondered if she would risk the wrath of a Daedric Prince, but she’d done it before, and would likely do it again. She didn’t intend to defy Hircine, but she did intend to defy the likes of Molag Bal.

“Well met again, Hunter,” Hircine’s voice came from the stag.

“I defy you and your vile tasks,” Skathi announced with a hint of pride.

“So you may think,” the stag replied, “By bringing down my other Hunters, you turned the chase inside out. And they were no base prey. You continue to amuse and impress. Go forth, with my blessing.”

And with that, the stag disappeared. She checked and his ring was in her satchel. Nothing seemed to get under this prince’s skin, no matter how disrespectful it could be taken. Perhaps Skathi would consider him a patron, but Kynareth came first. Funny how she thought while the blood of a vampire flowed through her veins. She would need to change that.

Skathi left Bloated Man’s Grotto, alive. After the hunt, she would need to rest, but once she was well and rested, Harkon would be her next prey.


	20. Chapter 20

Finding evidence in the Warrens was difficult. Ravani had to purchase Weylin’s old room in order to gain entry. She had forgotten that things on the bottom revolve around money as much as they do on the top. It doesn’t matter if you have the right of way; you must have money, or you will die. It was obviously different on top. You must have the blessing of Zenithar for your next bejeweled horde, or no one will respect you.

The situation didn’t change much inside Weylin’s room. He left it barebones, not like he had much money to decorate the place. No one with a smelting job had it as good as the merchants’ trade, and the gagged walls weren’t the sort you hang craftwork over. However, Ravani did find a note, one that was simultaneously useless and telling.

It read, “Weylin,

“You've been chosen to strike fear in the heart of the Nords. Go to the market tomorrow. You will know what to do.

\- N”

Obviously, the entire seen at the market was planned. So was Weylin’s death, most likely. The problem was who planned it. “N” might imply that they were looking for someone with it as the first letter in their name, but it could also be a useful pseudonym. There wasn’t much to go on as to who masterminded this conspiracy. If Ravani had to make a guess, she’d tell whoever told her to do that she would be an idiot to presume this early.

In these Warrens, the folk lived as Ravani did not too long ago. She looked back to those not too far away years of poverty, the chill of winter under rags that cost a day’s worth of begging, moldy bread the cake of the day. You’d think such rich city wouldn’t have poor folk, but the money they made was going disproportionately to those who never worked a day in their lives. Perhaps a different system would be better, one where all are given an equitable wage.

These thoughts crossed Ravani’s mind as she left the Warrens and arrived back in the smelting area. A great waterfall flowed water through the city and the folk took advantage of it to make forge their metals. A good place to cool hot steel and fuel the wheels of industry, but she saw the workers earn their day’s wage with their blood sweet and tears. Their foreman would clearly not care if they fell into the river.

Just as Ravani was going to leave, a man in leather armor approached her. “You've been digging around where you don't belong,” he growled like a rapid beast, “It's time you learned a lesson.”

The impromptu investigator didn’t know how she missed such an obvious result of her snooping. If there are people who seek to go against the grain, they’ll have carpenters trying to say that’s stupid. Well, slapping the people away from your work sometimes doesn’t work. Sometimes, you have to smack them over the head with the carving tools. Sorry, I have no clue where I was going with this.

“You first,” Ravani snarked. She wasn’t going to get stabbed or beaten up for stupid reasons, but she would kill for money.

“Let's go!”

The man in leathers was a bruiser. He may not be well nourished, but his strength was likely better than Ravani’s. Of course, Ravani has fought much tougher folk than him and won. Why? Because she lost a lot. The fact she’s still around means she figured out how to win and killed people who’d probably beat her to death with no question. That’s why she learned how to use the bow.

As the bruiser came at her with fist raised, Ravani bolted to the walkway to the Warrens. He followed, which is what she wanted. She picked herself up with the walkway’s low hanging frame, turned herself around and gave a hearty kick to her pursuer. He stumbled quickly to the edge of the walkway, nearly falling into the drink. Ravani knew he had to swim if she want to win.

She dropped from the frame and bolted toward the stumbling man. Her intent was to push him into the river, but he was quick to throw a punch that sent Ravani to the floor. This wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, as Ravani spun around on the ground, choosing to go for his legs with another kick. He stumbled, but not as bad as before. He wasn’t going down easy.

Desperate, Ravani bolted upward, putting her arm in between his legs for some impromptu leverage. His footing as bad enough for him to fall into the river, but Ravani fell in as well. She was unable to choose whether she did, as she couldn’t get the right footing either. The water crashed against them like thunder.

But even here, Ravani could gain an advantage. Though discombobulated a little, she was a swimmer that could easily control herself in the waves. Not so much this fellow. As a bridge came between them and where the river led, Ravani twisted around to grab the bruiser as she brace to hit the stone. When they connected, Ravani forced the bruiser against the bridge, letting her strength and the river’s waves push against him.

“You mangy piece of pit-bait!” the bruiser spat. Literally, as water and blood filled his mouth for far different reasons.

“Talk, or I send you to the gods,” Ravani commanded. She would let the river take him if he said nothing. Not an instant, nor guaranteed death, but would you want to chance it?

The bruiser didn’t. “I was sent by Nepos the Nose,” he confessed, speaking as loud as he could over the river, “The old man hands out the orders. He told me to make sure you didn't get in the way. That's all I know, I swear!”

Ravani at least had a name now. She threw the bruiser over onto the bridge and soon threw herself onto it. She may not know where to find Nepos, but she could learn that from people that didn’t almost get drowned. Altogether, she was ready to take a break, a warm bath, and a change of clothes.

But still, no rest for people who needed to get paid. She check her coin purse first and found it was still there. At least she had that solace. There was a reason she liked money; they could buy her a warm bath and a change of clothes. Time was something that wasn’t so easy to buy, but she it could be found. She probably had the time for a break, probably some food as well. Too bad the meat stall was abandoned; she could do with some jerky.

Really, her thoughts at this point had begun to ramble on. Better that than single minded attitudes. Like always wanting money. Ravani had to question if that meant she was being as bad as those other people that she thought lack independence, like Stormcloaks and Legionnaires. What agency had those poor souls have to comfort them?

Never mind. Comfort now, existential dread later. Or always. I’m rambling.

* * *

It was a long two days of travel for Agata and Serana. After Agata had to pick up the vampire from the Ancestor Glade, the poor Nord at the go from one end Skyrim to the other. Granted, it was an uneventful journey, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t still tiring.

Eventually, they did come upon this Darkfall Cave. It didn’t seem like anything else than a normal cave, but that was only the entrance. Something Agata had learned is that a cave gets far more “distinct” the further you go in. You never know if you’ll find in the deep places of the world, whether old and fowl or young and fair or none of that.

The party of two and a temperamental husky rested for the night, Serana taking the tent for the eventuality of sunlight. When they awoke, it was late in the morning. The poor Nord cursed herself but came to terms with the fact she had worn herself out over the past few days getting from one place or another. With that, she, Serana and Bran went into the cave.

The cave still didn’t seem remarkable the further they went in. It seemed like a course hole in the earth with a humid atmosphere that made it feel like the armpit of Skyrim. There was one thing to note: there were lit torches. Someone had been here before, and they might have found this Auriel’s Bow. Agata prayed it wasn’t the vampires.

They eventually came across a rickety old bridge. Ever step across it felt like it would be their last, it was so unstable. When they made it across, it was a dead end. There was a table and pickaxe, proving someone had come here, but Agata didn’t recall anyone pass through. Another thing was that there were two untapped ore veins that might be the reason anyone was ever interested in this place but wasn’t why Agata was there.

The trio crossed the bridge back when it gave way and they fell into the stream bellow them. They tumbled and turned in the running water faster than whoever Wolf was when he earned being called Runner. It would be easy to believe this would be the death of them, whether by force or chill. It was just humiliating.

Agata was deposited on the hard ground after a solid minute of the rapids. She looked around and found Bran, soaked, and yelling to her side. To her other side, a decidable quieter Serana was still drenched, but just shivered instead of screaming about it. Agata dragged herself over to give her big puppy and started scratching him to get him focused on something else than being wet.

“Let’s find some fire,” Serana suggested with a bitter voice.

“Can’t you just set one yourself?” Agata asked, shivering.

The vampire shook her head. “I figured fire magic was overrated,” she admitted, “As it turns out, I was wrong.”

The poor Nord picked herself and the husky up and began searching the caves for something. It was much like before, with course stone and a humid atmosphere. The heat and with the cold wet surrounding Agata was rather unbearable. In a fit of exhaustion, she undid all her buckles and threw her gauntlets and cuirass off, leaving a linen shirt that was surprisingly dry. She was certain it was gonna bite her in the butt later, but she was tired.

They eventually came upon a fire, but it was unwelcoming. Corpses of people who had come before tend to do that. A Breton woman, if Agata had to guess. It was a campsite stained in blood, but at least there was a fire. Sat in front of the fire, she found a letter. It did read

“Sister, I know that you'll come find me, but it will be too late. If you find this letter, get out of this forsaken cave as soon as possible. We were fools to think we could live so close to such creatures and live peacefully.

“I should've headed back to camp with you after we placed the torches down here. I thought these trolls would be different, that they would somehow understand that we didn't want to hurt them.

“I am now cornered and it's only a matter of time before one of the trolls decides to finish me off. I hope it is a quick death.

“Farewell, my dear sister.”

Cold, wet, and worn was a terrible condition to read that in. Agata was reminded of Skathi, like everything did nowadays. It was funny; she rarely spared a thought to Skathi in those twelve years they were separated, and now she could barely think of anyone else. That damn prophecy of Molag Bal’s was more of a curse and still a terror on her life. She had no clue how close the day was that it would be fulfilled, if ever. If they can get past this crisis without Skathi dead, they were safe.

After the poor Nord felt warm enough, she picked herself up, her cuirass loose on her shoulders, and went further into the cave with the Serana and Bran in tow. They expected to find monsters before the end of this, especially trolls. That note left one possibility little to the imaginations. Agata had taken down a few trolls in her time, but it was never easy.

They went through winding ways until they cave across the dreaded chamber. Two trolls were sauntered around the cave, picking at corpses and skeletons. Among the corpses looked a caricature of a pale elf. If Agata had to make a guess, she would say they were Falmer. She’d never seen them before, always knowing she should never just jump into a Dwemer ruins without knowing how she’d get out.

Agata led the attack with a crossbow bolt into the eye of the closer of the two trolls. It bellowed and the other troll was fast to find the source of its companion’s pain. Serana threw ice shards at the unharmed one, though not all pierced its hardy hide. They both charged the Nords with the clear intend to kill them, probably eat them. That’s the point where Agata usually ran and found an advantage, but she didn’t know if that were possible.

Bran clearly had different ideas. He charged the troll with one less eye and jumped upon it until it was climbed up it shoulder. It bit into its neck and tore it open. The troll fell limp and was dead on the ground. The other troll cried in grief and slammed Bran across the cave.

With burning rage, Agata charged the still living troll, axe in hand. She brought down many cuts upon its hide until it was dead, and even some after. She ran to make sure her husky was alive, and yes, Bran was alive. He was whining, but Agata found no broken bones or other injuries on him. He was just being Bran. They proceeded down the cave with the husky piggybacked.

Eventually, they came upon a place unalike to the course cave before them. It was a shrine of sorts made from white stone and atop it was a golden icon of the sun. And beside it was an armored elf with the palest skin Agata had ever seen. She was most unfamiliar with both the armor’s design and this breed of elf. But then it struck her.

Was this a Snow Elf?

* * *

As it turned out, Nepos was a well-known man in the city. Ravani wasn’t aware of that, but it was an interesting situation. She was aware “well-respected” people could often be tied to organized crime, even those with treasonous intent. The funny thing was they weren’t willing to say exactly who he was or what he was respected for. Funny, that.

Now, there were people who were respected for no reason. There were folks in the Gray Quarter than worshipped the ground anyone who stood up for them or were nice to them. For all Ravani knew, Nepos was nice to Reachmen and everyone gave him money because of it. Some people do funny things.

Ravani went to his awfully expensive house and entered to find a maid in her way. “Excuse me,” the matron questioned, “What’s your business here?”

A valid question. Not many outsiders go anywhere without reasons. “I’m here to see Nepos,” Ravani stated.

“We haven’t been expecting you,” the matron replied, seemingly unwilling to move, “and the old man needs his rest. Come back another time.”

Ravani was always annoyed with these sorts of things. Old people obvious need rest: everyone needs to rest at some point in their life. Why should old people be special? Why was it that when Ravani wanted to talk to an old person, their caregivers refused and use that excuse? Why should they get all the rest and Ravani still has to run around for her coin? Why can’t she just sit and let money spew from the cracks in the floor like fountains?

Annoyed with everything, Ravani was about to leave when she heard an old man’s voice. “Wait,” it called out, “It’s okay, my dear. Send her in.”

The matron frowned. “Yes, Nepos,” she obey, stand aside as she turned to Ravani, “You heard him. Go in.”

Ravani, finally allowed to enter, walked into the house’s living room. By the hearth was an old man and a nose you’d never forget. Perhaps enough to be Nepos the Nose. The old man’s eyes were heavy, but not the way she knew someone needed to sleep. It was more like he was tired with something in life. He clearly needed an unburdening of some sort. Hopefully not a bad one.

“I’m sorry about my housekeeper,” Nepos stated in his old, tired voice, “She’s a little protective of me.” There could be many reasons for that, like being a Forsworn leader. “Now, what is it you want?”

Well, Ravani wanted a lot of things. This house was nice, though there wasn’t any windows, a failing of all these bloody Dwemer buildings like those folks hated the sun. She wanted food, wealth and to never die. However, this wasn’t about what she wanted out of life; this was what she wanted right then and there. Blackmail may solve all those problems, but that doesn’t always work.

“I know about Weylin,” Ravani stated.

“Ah, yes,” Nepos noted as though it was as insubstantial as the color of caves, “You've proven to be a real bloodhound. Well, you've sniffed me out. I've been playing this game for almost 20 years. Sending the young to their deaths. All in the name of the Forsworn. And I'm tired. So tired.”

Ravani could see that easily. But that begged the question, “Why?”

“Because my king told me to,” the old man confessed, “Madanach. When the uprising fell at the hands of the Nords, they threw him in the mines. I don't know how, but he lives. I get his messages, and I hand out his orders without question.”

The mines. Cidhna Mine. The reputation of the Silver-Blood family’s cash cow was appropriate for their name. Metals they led more precious than the convicts they threw in there for their whole lives. No one escapes from that place and everyone knew it. The only ways in or out were the manmade openings, no natural caves to the surface. A perfect place for a king in rags.

However, there was a more pressure question to Ravani. “Why are you telling me all this?” she asked with a hand on her hilt.

“My dear girl,” Nepos remarked, “what makes you think you're getting out of here alive? You were seen coming in. The girl at the door is a Forsworn agent masquerading as a maid. You aren't the first one to have gotten this far. You won't be the last.”

And with that, he drew his dagger on Ravani. Of course he didn’t confess for confession’s sake. He likely stalled so his staff could get ready for the fight ahead of them. Ravani drew her own blade as the house staff around did as well. Some of them wielded magic as well, with balls of colored light in their hands. They weren’t going to be an easy fight.

Of course, Nepos likely wasn’t recently acquainted with combat, nor was he as spry as Ravani was. Despite the incident at the river, she was still a faster blade than he was. In one distinct pirouette, Ravani spun around Nepos and let her sword find its way to the old man’s throat. It quickly proved sharp steel was better than ragged flesh or crumbled bone and his head flesh across the house.

Quickly, the staff cried for their master’s death. But just as quick was their rage. Lightning flung from their fingers, striking at the Dunmer, but the first thing Ravani learned in life was how to fall. Falling with lightning was a trick she learned was useful, so she took the crackling energy better than most. When it dissipated, Ravani was still standing, looking at the fools with contempt in her eyes. Theirs were full of fear, grief, and rage.

Ravani went quick to the first man coming at her. Her blade was swift and ruthless, cutting through his flesh like paper into his chest and he crumbled faster. The next man tried to take advantage of his comrade’s death and stab her from behind, but Ravani has had enough backstabbers her life to know how to get the edge on them. She flung the fading corpse at the attacker and let his disgust distract him from the fatal cut to his throat.

The last was the maid, whose paranoia likely would’ve saved her master. She cast sparks of lightning to strike Ravani, but that was already proven to be ineffective against her. However, she still cast it and the Dunmer felt her skin beginning to burn at the sparks’ prompting. To at least get out alive, she need to get an edge on the maid.

With little time to think, Ravani unsheathed her dagger and raised her sword to draw the lightning away from her. She learned this trick with trial and error. With it distracted, she threw the dagger straight into the maid’s chest. The matron fell, likely to die, but Ravani wasn’t going to stay around to find out.

Ravani bolted from the house, keeping in mind what she learned. Madanach still commanded the Forsworn from Cidhna Mine. This may explain a far few things about the Reach during the war. From traitor’s motives to those guerillas of unknown origin. She could think of a fair few people who would like to know this.

* * *

“I am Knight-Paladin Gelebor,” the pale elf greeted, “Welcome to the Great Chantry of Auri-El.”

There were a lot of words in that sentence Agata wasn’t familiar with. She had no clue what a Knight-Paladin was, but it sounded foreign. She wasn’t entirely sure what a chantry was, nor how one could be great, but it sounded religious. And she didn’t know who exactly Aur-El was, but it sounded like elven pretentiousness. It also sounded like a word Serana said about their quarry.

“This cave is a temple to Auriel?” she asked.

“Auriel, Auri-El, Alkosh, Akatosh,” Gelebor listed off, “so many different names for the sovereign of the snow elves.”

So, she was right. “Snow elves? You're a Falmer?”

The elf looked pained at the comparison. “I prefer snow elf,” he explained, “The name ‘Falmer’ usually holds a negative meaning to most travelers. Those twisted creatures you call Falmer, I call the Betrayed.”

So, Agata was right, but there were questions to that. It is taught that all Snow Elves who stayed in Skyrim were wiped out by the Atmoran, and the survivors would flee and become mutated servants of the Dwarves. If a colony of Snow Elves did survive, they would probably horribly inbred. Cousins produce horrific spawn; thousands of years of an unchanged gene pool were kind to this fellow.

But she digressed. “I imagine you know why we're here,” Agata remarked.

“Of course,” Gelebor replied, “You're here for Auriel's Bow. Why else would you be here? I can help you get it, but first I must have your assistance.”

This would probably be a ridiculous task. “Do I have a choice?” Agata asked.

“Absolutely,” the Snow Elf nodded, “You could turn around and travel back from wherever you started empty handed, or you could assist me.”

The poor Nord sighed. “What type of assistance do you need?” This would definitely be a ridiculous task.

“I need you to kill Arch-Curate Vyrthur,” he explained, grimly, “my brother.”

The irony of the situation wasn’t lost Agata. She had no clue was an Arch-Curate was, but it sounded religious. It occurred to Agata the reason she was lost in this though was because she was her own situation brought so much worry, another similar set of events was disinteresting. Disturbing, but this was her life at this point.

“Kill your brother?” Agata clarified, “Why?”

“The kinship between us is gone,” Gelebor spat, “I don't understand what he's become, but he's no longer the brother I once knew. It was the Betrayed,” his rage gave was to mystified distress, “they did something to him, I just don't know why Auri-El would allow this to happen.”

There was something to this, but the Snow Elf’s isolation here was telling. “What exactly did the Betrayed do?” Agata inquired.

“They swept into the Chantry without warning and began killing everyone without pause,” Gelebor explained curtly. It was clearly still a painful wound.

“Didn't you fight back?” Perhaps not a respectful question.

The paladin’s face tightened, his eyes closed in painful memory. “The Chantry was a place of peaceful worship,” he recalled, “I led a small group of paladins, but we were no match for the Betrayed's sheer numbers. They slaughtered everyone and stormed the Inner Sanctum where I believe they corrupted Vyrthur.”

Agata felt she should point out a hole in the task she was given. “You don't even know if he's alive.”

“He's alive. I've seen him,” Gelebor explained, “But something's wrong. He never looks as though he's in pain or under duress. He just,” his distress returned, “stands there and watches, as though waiting.”

A frightening thought. Agata had believed wholeheartedly that Skathi had become evil when she joined the vampires. With Vyrthur turned against the chantry, with the Falmer as his allies, it was no doubt he was a sibling turned evil. If she were to do this, would it satisfy Molag Bal’s desires for kin-slaying? His thirsts never quench, it is said, so she couldn’t say.

“Have you tried getting into the Inner Sanctum?” she asked.

“Leaving the wayshrines unguarded would be violating my sacred duty as a Knight-Paladin of Auriel,” Gelebor explained, “And an assault on the Betrayed guarding the Inner Sanctum would only end with my death.”

“Wayshrine?” Was that what this structure was? It was quite pitiful for the title.

“Yes, let me show you.”

Gelebor turned to the shrine and waved his hand in some sort of spell. The ground shook and the white structure rose from it. The small shrine became an arched structure with a basin at the center, but only through one of the arches could be entered. The rest were block with wall. It seemed an odd construct, but perhaps there was a reason behind it. Symbolism, perhaps.

“The only way to get to my brother is by following in the Initiates' footsteps and traveling from wayshrine to wayshrine just as they did,” Gelebor explained, “The first lay at the end of Darkfall Passage, a cavern that represents the absence of enlightenment.”  
Agata thought it would be a long journey to complete this. “How many more wayshrines are there?” she asked, gauging how long it would be.

“There are five in total, spread far apart across the Chantry.”

That wasn’t so many. “These caves must be massive,” Agata remarked.

Gelebor raised an eyebrow. “Caves?” he questioned, “Oh, no. The Chantry encompasses far more than a few caves, as you'll soon discover. But before I send you on your way, you'll need the Initiate's Ewer.”

The paladin gave her a decorated pitcher as the length of the task set in. “So, I need to fill this at each wayshrine?” she asked.

“Once you've located a wayshrine, there will be a spectral Prelate tending to it,” Gelebor explained, “They will allow you to draw the waters from the shrine's basin as if you've been enlightened.”

There was probably a lot to asked and unpack, but there were things to do today and Agata wasn’t one to dottle. “I'll be off then.”

Gelebor nodded. “This may be the last time we're able to converse,” he remarked, “If you have any questions before you leave, I suggest you ask them. Otherwise, all I can do now is grant you my hopes for a safe journey.”

Serana began asking many questions to ask the Knight-Paladin, but Agata hadn’t much interest in them. She just herded Bran to her side, who was annoyed he wasn’t being piggyback anymore. They waited for their vampire companion to finish up while Bran started getting scratches.

Once Serana was done, Agata drew water from the basin and a portal appear in one of the walled arches. It was to another cave, she could tell. She was certain this was the purpose of the wayshrines. With no clue as to where she was going, she braced herself and stepped into the portal.

* * *

Ravani bolted as fast as she could. What she learned couldn’t be easily forgotten, nor was it easy to find information. It seemed cruel to filter it through the lens of greed, as many lives had and will be affected by it. Madanach was ruling the Forsworn from his jail cell; that was a little bigger than whatever gold could be put in her pocket. Not that it wasn’t worth the gold, just that for once since the civil war, this wasn’t about money.

But even as she ran, exhausted from the day, Ravani ruminated on the information. Without Nepos, could the Forsworn’s efforts in Markarth be crippled? He had been his king’s man on the outside, leading them as to wreaked havoc in the city. It could be that the threat was over, but there was likely still Forsworn in the city and all it took was one to get them reorganized however Madanach was contacting the outside world.

And that raised another question: how was Madanach doing this? Why was he allowed to get away with this? Why was he even kept alive if he was so dangerous? Jarl Igmund and his father were hardly ones to show mercy to those who stole their home and slaughter their people. Was there another factor going into this that Ravani didn’t know about? Surely there was.

When Ravani arrived back at the shrine of Talos after another round of mad running around, she found a sight at its feet Tiber Septim surely wouldn’t approve of. Green garbed guards were stood over Eltrys’s bloody corpse. How these men kept their armor was any one’s guess, but their motive was clear: Eltrys did something wrong by them. It wasn’t necessarily something objectively wrong.

“We warned you,” one of the guards barked, “but you just had to go and cause trouble.”

Ravani remembered that. A guard confronted her after picking herself up in the wake of the fight with the bruiser. Another one in green guard’s armor. He said not to cause trouble. He didn’t know Ravani caused trouble, to herself and others, all her life; she wasn’t going to stop because he said not to. That turned out to be a warning.

“Now we have to pin all these recent murders on you,” the guard continued, “Silence witness. Work, work, work!”

Something told Ravani these guards weren’t exactly protectors of the weak. “What did you do to Eltrys?” Ravani inquired, looking at his still warm corpse.

“Same thing we do with all the other natives who want to change things around here,” the guard explained, likely damming himself, “We had a nice deal with Thonar and Madamach until you and Eltrys started snooping around.”

Thonar Silver-Blood. Now it made sense. Thonar was there when they discussed that peace treaty with the Forsworn that fell through. If Ravani remembered Rena’s stories correctly, their leader cried, “For Madanach, the King in Rags” as he turned on the Legion. It was likely Thonar tried to use it against his Wulded and the rest of the leadership, but it didn’t work. It really didn’t work.

“Well,” the guard continued, “you wanted to find the man responsible for those killings? You’ll have plenty of time with the King in Rags when you’re in Cidhna Mine.”

It was clear to Ravani this wasn’t going to end well. Thonar’s older brother was the newest Jarl; combine the power of a Jarl with the power of the Silver-Blood’s wealth and things aren’t going to end well for you. She could likely find a way to fight one of them, not both of them at once.

But even then, Ravani was in no place to fight anyone. She’d been roughed up by the events of the day. Even against pitiful hold guards could outmatch her waterlogged and worn self. Well, she couldn’t know for certain unless she tried, but she wasn’t going to try.

“Fine, I’ll come quietly,” Ravani fumed.

The guards came up to her with rope in hand. The bound her wrists together as they took her weapons and effects. It’s not like Ravani was going to try to get out of this one. Well, not yet anyway.

“You’ll never see the sun again, you hear me?” the guard snarl at the Dunmer, “No one escapes Cidhna Mine.”

Ravani had heard that sort of thing before. No one can swim the Sea of Ghosts. No one can survive the full force of the Stormcloak warband. No one can escape Cidhna Mine. For Ravani, every no one was her. All she needed was time.


	21. Chapter 21

Agata and Serana found themselves in a fluorescent cave of many different colors, many they weren’t accustomed to. It was from the growth in the cave of mushrooms, fungus and strange plants neither had seen before. Such strange fauna perhaps foretold how deep into the earth they were.

Not long into the cave, they heard a strange noise. They turned to its source and found that caricature of an elf that Agata could only assume was a Falmer. It struck at them, but Agata dodged and opened its neck to the world. When they were certain that was it, another Falmer attacked them, but Serana skewered it with an icicle. The vampire took a moment, but soon rejoined the march through the caves.

It became obvious that they were in Falmer territory and this encounter wasn’t abnormal. They would be set upon by many of the Betrayed and their fowl beasts, but would survive, sometimes just barely. When they came upon Falmer camps, they would do their best to avoid them, but they didn’t always have the opportunity and would be forced to fight.

They would wade through ambushes and traps until they came upon something new. It was like a sabre cat, but with black fur and purple patterns atop that. It fought like a sabre cat, pouncing upon Agata when she entered its chamber, but it was a strange breed neither her nor Serana had seen before. It died the same way though: with great effort and something sharp.

After the sabre cat was slain, they looked upon the chamber they found themselves in and were amazed. It was the same technicolor as before, but of far more color and plant life. And wildlife. Creatures much like those found in the world above were here and colored with black fur and strange patterns. Agata was certain she’d never seen a place like this before.

They traveled the way and found themselves in the presence of the first waystation. It was easy to tell it was the first because it was much the same design as Gelebor’s. Before was the spectral image of a robed elf, perhaps who Gelebor said they would meet on their journey.

“Welcome, Initiate,” it greeted, “This is the Wayshrine of Illumination. Are you prepared to honor the mantras of Auri-El and fill your vessel with His enlightenment?”

Agata wasn’t an especially fanatical follower of Akatosh, nor was familiar with this denomination’s distinctions, but she said “Yes,” to move forward with this.

“Then behold Auri-El's gift, my child,” it smiled warmly, “May it light your path as you seek tranquility within the Inner Sanctum.”

Agata entered the wayshrine and filled the ewer with its basin’s water. At once, a portal opened to a place unfamiliar. She figured it was the way to the next wayshrine, so stepped forward.

Through the portal, the party came to a tunnel and the light of the outside was soon. They took the exit and found themselves in a wonderous valley of ice and snow, of frozen falls and forgotten ruins. All of this was untouched by any mortal as far as Agata could tell. It was amazing to her. It was almost a shame she had to disturb it.

Agata, Serana and Bran descended into the valley and began the trek to the next wayshrine. Along the way, they fought off many sabre cats, all of strange colors. It was a hard-fought battle, as they didn’t attack one at a time, like when the times before, but it was done. Nothing a healing potion couldn’t help, but she did feel a little lethargic after it.

Eventually, the party came before the Wayshrine of Sight, as its spectral guardian called it. Like before, she drew water from the basin with her ewer and another portal was opened and she left to the next wayshrine.

Through the hills, they came across a passageway that was blocked by a cluster of spiders. Agata was certain this was their way, so attacked. The first spider was killed by a crossbow bolt, the second pounced and tried to bite her face off, but it was ineffective against an axe. The third was skewered by Serana’s icicle and the last had its face bitten off by Bran. Agata was quite proud of how well they worked together.

Once again, they came across a wayshrine, this the Wayshrine of Learning. Once again, Agata took water from the basin and carried on. After a brief journey, they came upon the Wayshrine of Resolution and performed their ritual. Agata was worn but reassured that it would be over soon enough.

On the way to the last wayshrine, they came upon a Falmer village. It was huts made of some unfamiliar hide that was shiny and black and all arranged to take advantage of the cliffside’s unforgiving lack of space. It was an impressive feat, but too dangerous to behold for long. They traveled upstream, almost hugging the other side of the river.

They were led into a cave, one they were certain contained the horrors of the Falmer. And it did, for their traps, beasts and selves were there to attack them. Agata fended them off as well as she could, as did Serana, but Bran was wearing thin. Agata took it on herself to cover for her husky, keeping foes from attacking him, but she was wearing thin as well.

The worn party took a spiral path up and came upon the final wayshrine. It was the Wayshrine of Radiance. Agata collected the water and took the final steps towards the chantry.

They exited the cave and walked an ornate bridge the rest way to the courtyard of this holy place. The building was made of much the same stone as the wayshrines but made into a temple of gorgeously simple design. Before them were two staircases around a statue of magnificent elven figure with the icon atop the other wayshrine marking it. This was most likely Aur-El.

But they were tired. “How about we set up camp?” Agata asked.

Serana looked at the night sky and replied, “Seems about right.”

They set up camp with the resolve to open the door in the morning.

Agata couldn’t sleep quite right. Her thoughts were still on her trouble in Skyrim. This place, untouched by any still living mortal, was such a calm on her nerves. To return to that, to return to the vampires and bloody warfare. It was her wish to stay here.

But there was nothing for her here and she knew that. Beauty couldn’t sustain her in this place, nor could the work she would need to survive. She simply wanted to leave that life where Daedric lords and vampire hordes were as ever present as the snow.

Agata looked into the night sky and made a vow on this, the turning of the year if she were correct. She vowed to end this war, to save her sister any way she could, to strike back at Molag Bal for this. And she vowed to return to this place one day with someone she thought would need its beauty.

Then, and only then, did she fall asleep.

* * *

Jeanne had ridden all day to get back to Riften, Marcurio complaining the entire way. She knew she likely wouldn’t be able to enjoy the Old Life Festival to usher in the new year, but that wasn’t why she was in a hurry. She wanted to give Mjoll her lost sword, Grimsever, and she didn’t want to waste any more time giving it to her. Prince Adrien learned the true meaning of haste that day.

When Jeanne arrived, she went to the market square. She saw the decorations left, lanterns with waning light and wreaths of snowberries off every balcony. The streets were filled with drunkards traditionally sober the rest of the year, laid next to the sardonic gaze of beggars. The bards had left the scene a long while ago but had left their instruments at the center of the square, perhaps for a kip and booze before the New Life Festival started at noon tomorrow. An example Marcurio took as in splayed out on a bench.

And there was Mjoll, stood vigil. She was making sure the instruments wouldn’t be stolen in the night, or at least until one of the bards came back. From what little Jeanne knew of her, it seemed perfectly in character. Perhaps it was just an archetype, but such a selfless person would be just that stupid in Jeanne’s mind to wait when surely there were guards about to make sure nothing happened.

In fact, there were more guards than normal. Perhaps it was just the festival, but even then, there shouldn’t be this many. Back in Anticlere City, there would never be this many guards, even in the rowdiest of festivals. Perhaps there was something to be said about the celebrations of Nord and Bretons and how different they were.

Jeanne put these oddities in the back of her mind and approached Mjoll. She was quite nervous that she might botch this, but she had to be brave. One doesn’t fight a Dwemer Centurion and suddenly lack the courage to deliver a sword.

“Mjoll,” Jeanne said before her nervousness took hold again.

The warrior woman looked away from her vigil to greet the Breton. “Ah, you're back,” she remarked, “What have you discovered?”

Jeanne stilled her shaky leg to take the Glass sword from her backpack. “I've located Grimsever,” she stated.

Mjoll’s eyes went wide. She took the blade in hand and held it the way a young lad holds his father’s sword. The scabbard on her back would soon find use again. There was something Jeanne didn’t realize before, but now Mjoll was whole again. Something missing that Jeanne wouldn’t have guessed came back to her.

But this was interrupted by a sudden gasp and thud. Jeanne looked to the source and it was a Legionnaire fallen on the ground. She ran to see what happened to him, when a sudden and traumatically familiar pain shot into her gut. She check and there it was: an arrow sticking out of her ribs. Where did it come from?

Before another thought could go through her head, three more guards were stuck with arrows and fell down, dead. Sheathed her newly reunited blade and drew her bow. In three seconds, she nocked and loosed an arrow into the night and a shadowy figure fell from one of the rooftops. If not the arrow, the fall surely killed them.

“Shadr!” Mjoll commanded with the strength it would take to pull that draw string.

At once, a have drunken Redguard lad emerged from the Bee and the Bard, a panic on his face. “Riften is under attack!” Mjoll explained as she nocked another arrow, “Get the citizens out!”

“By the Divines,” Shadr cursed as he beheld the situation, “I will! Take care of yourself!”

“And you!” Mjoll replied as another figure fell.

Jeanne soon rose to her feet, flames in hand. As soon as her eyes adjusted to the light, she could throw a firebolt at the nearest figure, but this arrow burning in her chest. Surely it had to be poisoned. How, to die in Riften, not Whiterun, Markarth or even in High Rock. Perhaps she was early to embrace death, but there wasn’t much else she could do.

But there it was. From atop the Bee and the Barb was one of the shadowed figures, arrow nocked and aimed at Mjoll. Before Jeanne could act, lightning struck the archer, who released the arrow into the ground instead of Mjoll. Jeanne turned around to spot Marcurio with sparks in hand, who then began sending more of those sparks against these attackers. They fell from their perch, crashing into the wooden streets, splintering the planks.

When Jeanne moved to check the body, another arrow whizzed past her. She crouched behind the waist-high wall continued on her path, determined to find something incriminating. If there was one thing her mother taught her, it was how to stay calm in an otherwise scary situation.

When she got to the corpse, there wasn’t any armor on him, not even a gambeson, but there was a telling mark. A Thieves’ Guild shadowmark. She read of them but expected to see them as much as them doing anything like this. They’re thieves, not murderers. Perhaps she was overthinking this massacre, but she had to; what else could she do?

With time, Imperial heavy archers came from the barracks. When the thieves’ arrows hit their steel armor, they wouldn’t pierce. Still, they fell like the other guards in the square did. Jeanne hadn’t seen such senseless violence in what felt like a lifetime ago. A lifetime she would like to forget.

As the arrows flew, Jeanne tried to look for another figure to burn, but she could find anyone in time before another arrow caught her in the stomach. With little strength to resist, she was flung across the street and hit the handrails that kept one from falling in the waters. She thanked Mara she they were there but could feel her strength failing her.

Mjoll saw this scene and ran to meet Jeanne. She held out her hand to pull Jeanne to her feet, and the Breton had the intention of getting out of here as fast as she could. But that was for not, as before their hands could meet, an arrow from atop the Bee and the Barb struck her in the back and with such force that she fell onto the handrail. She must have put her full weight and the weight of her iron armor onto the wooden rails, for they gave way and Mjoll fell into the waters bellow.

Jeanne couldn’t believe the scene. A warrior of her skills, fallen by water. Jeanne first threw a firebolt at the responsible archer and let them fall into Brynjolf’s stall. Then, Jeanne stood with the broken handrails as her only balance, the pain from the arrows stinging her. She broke the shafts so they wouldn’t get in the way. And then, she threw herself into the water.

She swam down and found the limp Mjoll. She took hold of her and tried to raise her above the water, but her iron armor was too heavy. She tried to unbuckled it, but they would give. Jeanne couldn’t save Mjoll. She couldn’t.

Jeanne looked at the light of those lanterns, fading under the water’s veil. She thought as long as she could see them, there was hope. She pulled Mjoll with all her strength, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to save her.

So weak and weary was Jeanne that she barely noticed a tugging on her.


	22. Chapter 22

When Agata awoke, she found Serana at the door, just staring. She looked as still as the stone and ice, but they would crumble and melt with time. Serana looked as though she were awaiting the door to open, but the ewer was nowhere in her hands. Perhaps she awaited Agata, which seemed far more likely.

She took the ewer and found that it was still full. However, something Agata took a moment to realize is that the water wasn’t frozen. It had been left outside for most of the night; it should be as hard as the stone that the temple was made off. There was something else keeping it cold, whether it was enchantment or the ewers design, Agata couldn’t tell; she wasn’t knowledgeable about either of these matters.

Agata approached Serana with the ewer in hand, Bran following close behind. The vampire looked paler than Agata thought possible. “You waiting on me?” she asked.

Serana practically jumped at her companion’s presence. “A little,” she stuttered out, probably because of the cold, “but I’m mostly waiting to throw up.”

Agata wasn’t aware vampires could catch a cold. “Do you think you caught something on the road,” she speculated, “or do you think the cold’s getting to you?”

Serana shook her head. “It’s the chantry,” she explained, “It’s gotta be.”

Agata’s brow furrowed. “I wasn’t aware temples could have such an aura,” she remarked.

Serana shook her head. “It’s not that,” she clarified, “Never mind, just open the door.”

It all honesty, Agata didn’t know how to open a door with water, but the empty basin in front of the door was telling. She poured the ewer into the basin and the water went straight through it. At first confused, they soon noticed the grooves in the stone floor carried the water from the basin to an icon of Auriel. A light shone above it as the icon was filled and the door opened. In a whole Era, as long or short as this one was going to be, Agata wouldn’t have guessed that.

With the way open, all that was left to do was walk through. However, it turned out to not be so simple. Serana was stood still, unmoving, and as pale as the ghosts. It occurred to Agata that she might be frightened of temples but couldn’t figure why. She had no clue why anyone would be frightened of temples. Weren’t the priests holy men?

Serana eventually joined Agata into the inner sanctum of the temple. They were met by a Falmer frozen still. As they journeyed further, there were many frozen Falmer, some surrounding an icon of Auriel, others scattered. Perhaps there was magic on these grounds that defended it from intruders. Agata couldn’t help but wonder if the magic was still on the grounds. Bran was just as wary.

They did travel the way through the temple until they came upon what could be mistaken for a throne room had this not been in a temple. The frozen Falmer were stood like members of a macabre court at attention to a figure sat upon a throne. As the party approached, they found he was a Snow Elf sat there. If Agata had to guess, this was Arch-Curate Vyrthur, their quarry.

As Agata approached the throne, the Snow Elf’s gaze focuses on her, looking more annoyed than frightened. “Did you really come here expecting to claim Auriel's Bow?” Vyrthur questioned, “You've done exactly as I predicted and brought your fetching companion to me.”

“Wait, is he talking about me?” Serana asked Agata in a frightened voice.

“Which, I'm sorry to say,” Vyrthur continued, “means your usefulness is at an end!”

And whatever held the Falmer frozen, whether the power of gods or the natural world, failed. They broke from their prison and set themselves on the party. However, the untold ages frozen had withered their skill and strength, so Agata found them an easy fight and the Falmer fell.

“An impressive display, but a wasted effort,” Vyrthur smirked, “You delay nothing but your own deaths!”

And the ground began to shake. “Watch out!” Serana warned, “He's pulling down the ceiling!”

“Finish them!” Vyrthur commanded as more Falmer broke from the ice.

This wave came with far more danger, as the roof began to fall. Not only did the monsters’ swords and their beasts awaken to fight them, but debris was falling all around them. When a rock crushed the iced body of a Falmer, that was good. When Agata just barely dodged a boulder that would’ve killed her, that wasn’t as good. This would be the death of them if they didn’t move.

When the last of the Falmer and their beasts were dead, Vyrthur rose from his throne and growled, “This has gone on long enough.”

“Your life ends here, Vyrthur!” Serana declared, stood so as to charge Vyrthur.

All emotion fell from Vyrthyr face like a child’s paper mask. “Child, my life ended long before you were born!” he remarked and rose his arms like a summoning.

All the Falmer and their beasts broke from their frozen prison and charged the party. Not just their beasts joined them, but Atronachs summoned by their shamans to kill them. Agata, Serana and Bran fought well, but Agata knew they couldn’t whether this wave so easy. Serana may summon the dead to fight for them, and strike lightning through their lines, but neither could truly stand these many foes.

But something caught Agata’s eye. An icicle stalactite was just above a massive flank before them. And Agata didn’t use her shot from her crossbow. She pulled out her weapon and sent the bolt into the base of the icicle, a longshot in more ways than one. But whatever magic broke the ice around the Falmer was still in the air because the icicle broke off the crushed most of the horde.

It wasn’t long after that that the rest of the Falmer fell. There were no more for Vyrthur to release. All that was left was him and it was clear he knew that from the burning fright on his face.

“No,” he barked, “I won't let you ruin centuries of preparations.” He raised his arms as though to summon something.

“Surrender and give us the bow!” Serana demanded, a crackling ball of lightning in one hand and a dagger in the other.

“Death first!” Vyrthur announced.

His magic surrounded him, and the ice began to follow it. The icicles broke from the ceiling and the floor. The energy and ice was held in one place and all of a sudden released, blasting through the room.

Agata was thrown back and couldn’t see Serana and Bran, the blast nearly blinding her. When she could see again, the two were over her, awaiting her to pick herself up. She did so and she found the ceiling had fallen and Vyrthur was out on a balcony, slouched. They found their weapons and went to meet him in with the sun shining on all of them.

“Enough, Vyrthur,” Serana barked, “Give us the bow!”

“How dare you,” Vyrthur growled, “I was the Arch-Curate of Auri-El, girl. I had the ears of a god!”

“Until the ‘Betrayed’ corrupted you,” Serana recalled with no sympathy, “Yes, yes. We've heard this sad story”

Vyrthur cruelly smirked. “Gelebor and his kind are easily manipulated fools,” he spat, “Look into my eyes, Serana. You tell me what I am.”

She did and so did Agata. It was then that Agata saw it. She cursed herself for not seeing it sooner.

“You're a vampire?” Serana stuttered, “But Auriel should have protected you-.”

“The moment I was infected by one of my own Initiates,” Vyrthur spat, “Auri-El turned his back on me. I swore I'd have my revenge, no matter what the cost.”

Serana and Agata shared the same look of confusion. “You want to take revenge,” the vampire clarified, “on a god?”

Vyrthur gave a sadistic nod. “Auri-El himself may have been beyond my reach,” he explained, “but his influence on our world wasn't. All I needed was the blood of a vampire and his own weapon, Auriel's Bow.”

“The blood of a vampire,” Serana recalled, “Auriel's Bow.” Her eyes shot in shock. “It,” she stuttered, “it was you? You created that prophecy?”

Agata was just as shocked by this. Prophecy is often considered sacred, something told by those who knew the future. To create one to shape the future is difficult, but she supposed he was lucky to have ones so willing to fulfill it. But perhaps there was another at work to fulfill the prophecy, one who would benefit from spiting the Divines.

“A prophecy that lacked a single, final ingredient,” Vyrthur continued, “the blood of a pure vampire. The blood of a Daughter of Coldharbour.”

Serana’s eyes burned with vengeance. “You were waiting,” she said as she rose Vyrthur up by the collar, “all this time for someone with my blood to come along. Well, too bad for you; I intend on keeping it. Let's see if your blood has any power to it!”

As Vyrthur was brought to the edge of the balcony, he squirmed and cried, “What trickery is this?”

Agata watched as Serana threw him into the valley below. He couldn’t fly, for after a while, he couldn’t be seen, but the subtle red the river below was turning was telling. The task was over; Arch-Curate Vyrthur was dead.

The ground shook and from it rose a structure much like a wayshrine as before. From it came Gelebor, a grim expression on his face.

“So, the deed has been done,” he remarked, “The restoration of this wayshrine means that Vyrthur must be dead and the Betrayed no longer have control over him.”

Agata shook her head. “The Betrayed weren't to blame,” she explained.

Gelebor looked on in confusion. “What? What are you talking about?”

“He was a vampire,” Agata informed him with no pleasure, “He controlled them.”

His eyes went wide. “A vampire?” he questioned, but his acceptance came soon after, “I see. That would explain much. Deep inside, it brings me joy that the Betrayed weren't to blame for what happened here.”

“Why?” Agata questioned. She knew these things herself and she still wasn’t certain she could accept this. She was certain he was lying.

“Because that means there's still hope that they might one day shed their hatred and learn to believe in Auri-El once again,” Gelebor explained with resolve, “It's been a long time since I felt that way and it's been long overdue. My thanks, to both of you."

Agata nodded. “You're welcome.” She couldn’t take such comfort in his sentiment.

Gelebor gathered himself and returned to the matter the party came here for. “You risked everything to get Auri-El's Bow, and in turn, you've restored the Chantry,” he recounted, “I can't think of a more deserving champion to carry it than you. If you wish to learn more about the bow, or obtain Sunhallowed Arrows for it, I'd be more than happy to help. You've but to ask.”

He turned aside and there at the wayshrine was there was a bow of elegant gold and a silver string. Beside it was a quiver of silver arrows, these Sunhallowed Arrows Gelebor spoke of perhaps. Agata approached and picked it up, finding the touch warm as fire, but didn’t burn. It was certain that this was Auriel’s Bow, the one of prophecy.

And now, there was no question about it. Clan Volkihar’s threat was ending. And Agata was running out of time.

* * *

Rena had gotten the news that morning; the war was back on. Ulfric had unleashed his warband once again and was marching on Winterhold, likely taken it by now. His soldiers numbered in the thousands, but no proper estimate was made. She didn’t know how long he would linger in Winterhold, nor did any of the Legates or even General Tullius, but they wouldn’t risk he’d holiday while they twiddle their thumbs.

The entire day, Rena, Ansgar and the other officer had been rallying the regiments to march. They would be marching into the night to reach the Pale, the midway between Dawnstar and the rest of Imperial controlled territory. The plan was to crush the Stormcloak blitz before it could reach Hjaalmarch and break them with the might of eight thousand Legionnaires. Surely, they were outnumbered, but it remained to be seen if they were outmatched.

Rena, Ansgar and the Legates entered the war room by nightfall, as General Tullius had summoned them. They had rallied the regiments and were ready to march, but Rena assumed he had something important to say. No matter, as Tullius was their superior officer and he could request their audience without a stated reason. Reasons were nice though.

He looked up from the strategy table to look at them with strong resolve. “Commanders,” he addressed them, “the battle for Skyrim begins soon. Should you route the warband, Ulfric’s fate is sealed. Even if he escapes, he’ll have no choice but to retreat into Windhelm and we will follow him there and take the city. All of this relies on a concise victory.”

“As such,” he continued, “I’ll be sending a messenger to the Legates of the Pale and Hjaalmarch to deploy their regiments to aid you in battle.”

“And what of Haafinger?” Ansgar inquired.

“Legate Caesennius will have his regiment in defense of Solitude and the Emperor until he can set sail,” Tullius explained, “With the hold guard and his Legionnaires, we have well over two thousand in defense.”

“And what of Cyrodiil?” one of the legates asked, “Are we getting reinforcement from there?”

Tullius looked as though that was the question he didn’t want to answer. “The fact we have as many regiments as we do is down to a few favors I cashed in,” he stated, an air of defeat in his voice, “We’re not getting reinforcements.”

This wasn’t what Rena, or any of the Legates wanted to hear. They fought for the Empire, for Cyrodiil, but they couldn’t easily win the battle without more soldiers. However many soldiers were under Ulfric’s command, it would’ve been a gift from the gods to have a full Legion division marching through the southern holds while their fifty-five hundred on the frontlines. That was not to be, and it clearly effected Tullius’s demeanor.

“Most of the Legion is tied down on the border with the Aldmeri Dominion,” the general continued, “The Emperor can't afford to risk weakening Cyrodiil's defenses. From the Imperial City, our war here is just a sideshow. An interlude before the main event against the Thalmor resumes.”

The room had become woefully somber. The reality of what they were facing set in and they knew how badly this war could go if they were to fail. If eight thousand could halt Ulfric’s advance, two thousand couldn’t. All they could do was hope for the Emperor to leave Skyrim safely. How could he still be here after the attempt on his life AND the cold war having boiled over? Did he have death wish?

“It doesn’t matter how many we face,” Ansgar spoke up, “or how many we kill on the field of battle. All that will end this war is Ulfric, and I vow I will kill him if no one else will. Even if a million Stormcloaks stand in our way, I charge into their ranks to take his life.”

Tullius looked upon him with reserve. “Captain,” he remarked, “if there was someone who could do that, I would guess it’d be you.”

“Alright, lollygaggers,” Legate Rikke interjected, “let’s move out!”

“All hail the Empire!” Tullius boomed.

“Hail to the Emperor!” the room returned.

With that, they left to march. All but Rena though. She wanted to say goodbye to Alary first. The poor girl had been staying at learning the ways of magic under Sybille Stentor, despite no one requiring her to do so. Rena was glad she was trying to make something of her life, but that wouldn’t help her say goodbye. This may be the last time Rena would be in Solitude and she may die before the dawn breaks.

Rena found Alary in the barracks, just were she usually stayed, reading a book that looked beyond the Legion captain’s understanding. She didn’t need to stay there; Stentor had quarters for an apprentice, but Alary still lived here anyway and Rena allowed it. She figured the poor girl liked it better here than in the Blue Palace, or at least with Stentor. That said something about the court mage, though Rena couldn’t nail down why.

“Alary,” Rena spoke up, catching the girl’s attention, “I’m going to march soon. I’ll be in battle.”

The poor girl’s leg starting bouncing. “Do you need to go?” she questioned.

Rena sighed, “Yes, the Legion needs me on the frontline and it’s too late to argue. I have to leave.”

The pain in Alary’s eyes was obvious. She had known someone that gave a damn about her and she was leaving now. Maybe it would be forever, maybe just for the night, but this may be their last goodbye. It wasn’t fair, it might not be right, but it was Rena’s duty.

Rena gave the poor girl an embrace with what strength she could spare. “I want you to stay in the Blue Palace until I return,” the captain asked, “Can you do that?”

Alary pulled back and nodded. “Goodbye,” Rena continued, “I’ll be back.” She couldn’t make such promises, but she had to. What else could she do?

Rena left the barracks and went to leave for the Legion marching camp. The road she walked many times before felt like it would end so sooner than it should. She didn’t want to leave this city. If she left, it would be for the last time. In this battle, she may die, but she kept telling herself it was her duty to die. For the Empire, for the Emperor. That was her lot in life.

As she passed an alleyway, she heard a familiar voice whisper, “Don’t go.”

Rena turned to find Skathi’s face in shadows. “If you leave,” she continued, “you’ll die.”

“I know,” Rena replied, “but what are you doing here?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Skathi stated, “but you need to leave as fast as you can. Follow me and you needn’t die for nothing.”

Rena sighed. “It doesn’t matter, Skathi. I need to do this. I won’t abandon my Emperor in his time of need.”

The pain in Skathi’s eyes that was there throughout, but it worsened when Rena said that. “I understand. I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry,” the Legionnaire corrected, “this duty was my choice, not yours.”

And with that, she marched to war and death. May Stendarr be with her, Kynareth guide her and Arkay take her if she fails.

* * *

Things hadn’t quite turned out how Sybille hoped. By now, the Legion wouldn’t be marching to war; rather, they would be consumed by Potema the Wolf Queen’s dark magics. Haafinger would be fallen in the name of her lord, but this was acceptable as well. Eight thousand Legionnaires marching to war would be enough to weaken the hold’s resistance. It might not be as much as she would hope, but that wouldn’t matter for long.

Sybille observed them marching forth from her apartments at the edge of town. She bought this place for a multitude of reasons. The first was to witness executions, her favorite simple pleasure. The second was that her chambers in the Blue Palace were too conspicuous a place to drink the blood of her victims. Here, she could do as she wished with no one being the wiser.

The Legion’s movements typically had little interest to her. Which unit was destroyed where held little significance to her, more which landowner wasn’t happy with Jarl Elisif’s rule, and who might be a potential ally. However, this battle would mean Solitude would be more vulnerable than it had been in many a month. She sent such information to her lord so that he might know that this would be an opportune moment to strike.

But that was not the only reason she was here. The other was Alary. The girl had been learning the art of magic for close to a week and had shown significant potential. She would likely be a good mage, but a part of her lacked personal investment in this task. Well, as did Sybille. It was amazing she was learning so well despite neither cared about whether she did.

Still, she deserved to be a vampire. Sybille would turn her tonight to induct her nightly order and keep her safe from the chaos ahead. Alary would be safe from what was to come, and perhaps more advanced in the arcane arts. With her raw talent augmented, Sybille figured she might have more motivation to train her. Vampire look after one another if there’s something to gain from them, after all.

It was all coming together for Sybille. She would have a vampiric apprentice, a weakened Haafinger for her lord, and a world for vampires. Barring that her lord would likely punish her for failing to raise Potema, everything was going perfectly for her.

So you can imagine it was altogether frightening when an unexpected guest arrived. They were dressed in the garb of a Volkihar assassin, but the clan sigil was missing from their cuirass. Under their hood was a face that either looked like a young boy or a grown woman, depending. In one hand was a sword and the other a dagger. Sybille had never been on the receiving end of one of their lot, but it been a long time coming.

“I presume this has something to do with my failure,” Sybille remarked.

“It’s not your failure that brought me here,” the assassin said in a voice like the Karth River’s rapids, “it’s that you tried at all.”

Sybille was confused. The orders from Lord Volkihar were to raise the Wolf Queen and destroy the closest threat to their ambitions. She would be a powerful ally against the living and potentially sway others to their cause. An assassin being sent for the attempt couldn’t come from him, so she had to think of which member of court would be against it.

Malkus was an unlikely suspect, as his interest in the arcane was what drew him away from his tribe and to the clan, so he likely endorsed this. Vingalmo and Orthjolf were too busy with themselves to hate her, and she never got involved her their rivalry. Garen Marethi was his lord’s lapdog, so he’d never send an assassin to kill someone for even attempting his will. She couldn’t think of anyone who would do this, though she hadn’t been in court for decades, so perhaps she needed to ask.

“If I may ask,” Sybille requested, “could you tell me who was it that wished my death? What young member of court wished to kill such a close ally of Lord Harkon?”

Venom boiled over the assassin’s lips. “Me,” they spat, “Your actions would’ve killed my friend. And your rumor mongering only prolongs this war.”

Sybille questioned that statement. She killed people’s friends all the time without notice, but it was the part about the war that she didn’t believe. She simply said that Torygg would’ve left the Empire if Ulfric had only asked. She could see that causing discord, but not prolonging the war. Of course, if it reached the likes of her assassin, it must’ve reached at least to the court of Volkihar Clan.

“Very well,” Sybille remarked, “it’s clear you won’t be dissuaded.”

With that, the mage cast Sun Fire, a spell meant to slay vampires. It wasn’t Sybille’s preference, but she knew she would need it if she was to defend herself against other vampire. A ball of sunlight was thrown at the assassin, but it didn’t strike them. At least, that’s all Sybille could figure, as they only seemed briefly stunned by the magic rather than injured.

As such, she rose a ward to defend herself as she threw fire onto her attacker. The assassin seemed unaffected by the flames, likely do to enchantments on their armor. They charged Sybille and swung their sword to stab her, breaking the ward in one slash. Using two spells at once ran such a risk as both being ineffective.

When the ward broke, Sybille summoned an ethereal sword to defend herself. She was using every trick to keep herself alive. With little strength left, she summoned a Flame Atronach to fight for her and turned her flesh to hardened oak, both common spells. The Atronach grabbed the assassin from behind and pulled them of its master. With her magic, Sybille could live at least a minute longer.

The assassin was beginning to tire, Sybille could see it. Their blades weren’t striking the Atronach with as much effectiveness as Sybille knew they had. Sybille was beaming with pride, but then she saw a potion of fire resistance in their hand. They drank it and tackled the Atronach. It struggled and fought before the assassin threw it toward Sybille with their dagger following it.

The dagger struck true, as the magic keeping the Atronach’s form in this world had failed. Sybille knew what would happen next but was cornered by the failing body. The being of fire’s body burst, and it’s magics disbursed across the room. Worse, they caught on Sybille’s oaken flesh and began to burn her. Curse those who made this spell for not seeing how easy it was to exploit this.

The spell dissipated as Sybille fell to the ground. She was burned and broken. She couldn’t hope to succeed. The assassin stood over her, sword in hand. Sybille was out of magic and out of strength. She couldn’t even kindle a fire. She knew she would die.

But still, she had one question. “There was a girl coming here,” she inquired, “What did you do with her?”

“She’ll be far away from here by dawn’s break,” the assassin answered, “By the time she’s in Rorikstead, you’ll be in Coldharbour.”

Dammit, Sybille cursed herself, I should’ve known this would happen. And it all went dark.

* * *

Commander Maro beheld the Katariah before him as it cast off. It was the Emperor’s personal flagship, and it was leaving port soon. With the Stormcloak warband on the move, the province was no longer safe. He and Legate Caesennius were making sure nothing and no one put the Emperor in danger. If there was ever a time Ulfric could seize ultimate power, it was here.

You see, the Emperor had no heir apparent. His children, the few there were, had proven themselves unworthy of the throne through debauchery and stupidity. While the Mede Dynasty were only puppets of the Elder Council, their use as figureheads was important, and they were not fit for that duty. They better fit one of the mad Septims instead of the wise Katariah the Emperor’s ship was named for.

That was something Maro understood going into the Penitus Oculatus. He was not serving the most powerful man in Tamriel, especially not in recent years. The Elder Council’s power has grown in recent years to becoming a nepotistic, egotistical oligarch over the Empire. But Maro chose to take advantage of being the guard for that man to advance his position in life, establish his dynasty.

But that prerogative was already threatened. His eldest son, Gaius, was slain and slandered by the Dark Brotherhood. He looked so much like his mother. Maro always desired to destroy that Brotherhood and gain acclaim for it. Unfortunately, there was never an opportunity for that until his son was slain. Sure, he had other children, but his eldest would always be important for him.

As Maro thought of these things, Legate Caesennius came up to him. “Legate Rikke has likely reached Dragon Bridge by now,” he remarked.

“Good,” Maro replied, “They’ll likely meet Ulfric in the Pale, at this rate. Good place for a battle.”

Caesennius laughed. “I didn’t know an overrated bodyguard had anything to say for about the affairs of real men,” he balked.

As the Legate left to whatever business he was needed for, Maro noted he should probably kill Caesennius. If that were his attitude for the Emperor’s personal guard, he would surely let an assassin get away. Not intentionally, but he would allow their Emperor to die and be unable to catch his killer for sake of some absurd, egotistical reason. It was far from befitting any man of the Empire. Just because they were both using their position for the benefits, it doesn’t mean they can slouch.

That was something Maro’s father impressed upon him. His father took no responsibility for anything, finding any reason to dodge it. “I’m drunk.” “I’m hungover.” “I’m unmotivated.” “Why can’t your mother do it?” Well, he made for a poor farmer, in more ways than one. Maro tried to work his job, but it was too much for a child of his age. When he joined the Imperial military structure, he had his father arrested for tax evasion and put in stocks until he died. Some say he died for boredom.

When Maro married and had children, he chose not to make the mistakes of his father. He didn’t marry a woman that left them when the coffers ran dry, instead a woman that was glad to be married. He had many children to improve their life around the house, and nannies and tutors to help, never letting the children fail to measure up. And he made damn sure his children knew they had a father.

But now, his eldest son was dead. And the Dark Brotherhood paid for that offense against him. While few survived the sacking, they claimed the Brotherhood laid dead. But still, some were unaccounted. The spies that found the sanctuary said there was an Imperial male dressed as a jester, a Redguard male dressed as a Hammerfell traveler, and a female Nord child that should’ve been there. Maro hoped to reeducate the child, but perhaps it was enough.

Maro worried that the Brotherhood would rise again. But how unlikely was that? They could never rebuild from the less than ten noted as members, let alone at a third of that. And there were no sanctuaries left to rally. They would be found, they would be hunted, and they would be killed. Even if the girl grew up into their evil ways, she would die soon.

But at what cost? They were back at war, and Maro wondered if he was to blame. Their spies learned of the Falkreath Sanctuary from a child that wondered too far into the woods; what’s to say a Stormcloak citizen didn’t notice the hundred men in black Imperial uniforms crossing the border? It was sure more likely than not, and Maro considered he was at fault.

Intelligence was sparse on the Riften attackers. Someone said it was Thieves’ Guild, but it made no sense to Maro. Their goal was to steal without immediate reprisal, and their garb only had the sigil of the guild and no other uniform elements. It seemed more like someone wanted to commit the atrocity without their allies and supporters abandoning their commitment, so a group whose moral code was already considered questionable took the fall.

But who would do this? Ulfric was an immediate suspect. Something that would allow him to put one of his puppets into power again. But Maro wasn’t sure. Again, it seemed the most obvious answer, which made him uneasy. The most obvious answers are the ones that made him the least trusting. Would Ulfric risk such suspicious on his character? Well, he killed the High King for all to see, so there wasn’t much questioning that.

No. Ulfric couldn’t. His Nord sense of honor didn’t allow for such cloak and dagger behavior. If he wanted the Rift, he would’ve sacked it with his mighty warband. Surely, it had to be someone who didn’t mind the atrocities, wanted the civil war to continue, and was ready to bend the truth in a way that would raise suspicion. Maro could think of only one faction that had such questionable ethic and amoral motives: the Thalmor.

As Maro came to this conclusion, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and saw, with his own eyes, the assassin that killed the Emperor’s double. She still lived, now dressed in a Penitus Oculatus uniform.

“By the gods,” Maro gasped, “you! But it can't be. You're dead. You- “

He was interrupted by a slice to his throat. He fell off the dock where he stood and into the bay. As he plunged into the freezing water, he thought of how no one would consider the Thalmor a suspect in the Rfiten incident. He wondered about the fate of the Empire and his Emperor without him. Surely the assassin would attempt to board the Katariah and make an attempt on his life. It may be full of Penitus agents, but would they suspect her?

But that wasn’t something Maro could consider now. He sank below the surface and his final thoughts were realizing how it feels to drown. He wasn’t impressed.


	23. Chapter 23

Mikaela had reached the Emperor’s cabin within an hour’s time. She cut through Penitus agents when she was unable to prove she was one of them beyond the uniform. They had gotten clever since Gaius Maro. A good idea, but it was too bad they only just considered it. In the groups Mikaela had killed in, they always made certain you were who you said you were in more ways than looks. Well, except the Stormcloaks. How they expected to survive the coming battle, who knows?

She snuck into the cabin with the intent to kill him quickly. An arrow to the back. While she wanted to kill him slowly, painfully, with all the vengeance in her blood, but she didn’t have the time for pleasure. The Emperor needed to die, she was going to be paid for that, and she couldn’t let her personal feelings get in the way of any of that.

“And, once more,” said a voice like a kindly uncle, “I prove Commander Maro the fool. I told him you can't stop the Dark Brotherhood. Never could.”

It was the Emperor. He knew Mikaela was coming. He was turned away from the entrance, looking out the cabin window, but he knew she was coming. This was confusing. She didn’t expect him to be so unphased by death.

“Come now, don't be shy,” he continued, “You haven't come this far just to stand there gawking.”

And so, Mikaela approached the Emperor with her sword hung limp in her hand. She was before Titus Mede II, the Emperor of Cyrodiil, High Rock, Skyrim, and once Hammerfell. He was once her Emperor. And when she saw his face, his age was clear. His eyes looked tired, though from what was unclear. Mikaela saw the man who was once her Emperor no more than a tired old man. That made sense.

“You were,” she questioned, “expecting me?”

“But of course,” Titus remarked with all the calm of a man unphased, “You and I have a date with destiny. But so it is with assassins and emperors, hmm? Yes, I must die. And you must deliver the blow. It is simply the way it is. But I wonder, would you suffer an old man a few more words before the deed is done?”

Mikaela found herself lost for words. For near thirty years, she knew him as the man who threw away his people for sake of some treaty that was nothing more than a ceasefire that sacrificed her home. She lived in Rihad, the southmost city of Hammerfell. It was taken by the Thalmor during the Great War and they were allowed to keep it after the White-Gold Concordant. She, like others, didn’t stand for that and won back their independence. And now the man whose will she opposed begs for a few more words?

“You will hear me out, then?” Titus remarked after a spell, “Good. You will kill me, and I have accepted that fate. But regardless of your path through life, I sense in you a certain ambition.”

You could say that. Mikaela had fought through war and worse for the chance to kill the Thalmor and Imperials that had forsaken her people. That left her family to be used for the Thalmor’s person preference. Some were killed, others were used for purposes Mikaela didn’t know, but was warry to learn what. And every time she should’ve died, she came back angrier and full of even more powerful flames. She couldn’t be killed until she felt her family could rest in peace at last.

“So I ask of you a favor,” Titus continued, “An old man's dying wish. While there are many who would see me dead, there is one who set the machine in motion. This person, whomever he or she may be, must be punished for their treachery. Once you have been rewarded for my assassination, I want you to kill the very person who ordered it. Would you do me this kindness?”

What could Mikaela say to that? She had heard from some that the Emperor was a mere figurehead for the Elder Council. And as she learned, her employer was a member of that Elder Council. Perhaps he was not old enough to have signed the White-Gold Concordant, but every member of that incestuous oligarch deserved to die. But obeying their figurehead’s will?

“I'll,” she said, cautiously, “consider your request.”

“Thank you,” Titus nodded, “Now, on to the business at hand I suppose, hmm?”

And just like that, Titus turned his back to Mikaela, once again looking out the window. Not only did he accept his death, he was prepared for it. He simply rolled over like a dog, embracing it like Arkay reached out his hands to cling to him. Mikaela could hardly believe this was the same man she hated. In a more sadistic person’s mind, they would’ve fantasized this ending like this, but not her.

“Well?” Titus asked, “I won't fight you, so we may as well get this over with.”

Mikaela wanted to kill him for nearly three decades. She wanted to make him suffer like a veal calf, slowly and starved until finally killed. He was the one that destroyed her family, he let the Thalmor kill everyone she knew and more. She lost her childhood, her chance to live a normal life, because of him! She tried so many times to settle down, but she couldn’t escape her rage. Her thirst for death and she couldn’t quench.

But now that this was before her, she couldn’t do it. She could only stand there in shock that he wasn’t fight her. It was almost as if he hired the assassin himself, but Mikaela knew that was the most roundabout and pointlessly bloody way to commit suicide. No, he didn’t seek out his death; he only accepted that he would die. Mikaela didn’t know if she should kill him. He deserved to die years ago, but did he now? She didn’t know.

Still, Mikaela drew an arrow from her quiver. She drew it in the bow she stole from her armory, her sword sheathed. She pulled the bowstring, the tension far from that of what went through her mind at this moment. And then, she loosed the arrow. It hit his back and he fell over like a dead man does. When she check, Mikaela found he wasn’t wearing armor underneath his immaculate robes; the arrow to pierced his flesh.

And for the first time in a long time, Mikaela realized she was in room with a dead body. Not since she was a girl had she ever found that disgusting. She left the cabin and went on the deck of the ship to gag, and she threw up off the side of the ship. Why, of all people, did this man’s death do this to her? It surely wasn’t a good death, not at all, but she wanted it. Why?

But that was not the time to think. Her scene had drawn the attention of the Penitus Oculatus agents on deck. They surely knew that she had killed the Emperor, and since they were unlikely to protect him now, they would surely try to avenge him.

Mikaela wasn’t keen on that or killing them at the time. So, she threw herself off the side of the ship and let the freezing cold waters of the bay decide her fate.

* * *

After a long journey from one end of Skyrim to the other, Agata and Serana arrived at Fort Dawnguard. They discovered what fate befell Riften and Ulfric’s warband unleashed anew. Rumor had it, as they discovered this, Ulfric would’ve taken Winterhold and was on his way to the Pale. He will have met the Legion in open war by daybreak, they said.

And yet, it was the least concerning thing on Agata’s mind. She had claimed Auriel’s Bow, the key to Harkon’s plans, supposedly. With it in their possession, he’s would need to strike at Fort Dawnguard to claim it, for they weren’t set upon by vampires during their travels. They clearly didn’t know The Dawnguard had it, so they could be challenged easily, and the fort could probably whether a siege.

But even then, that wasn’t the most concerning thing on Agata’s mind.

Upon her and Serana’s entering the fort, Isran was there to greet them. He saw the bow in Agata’s hand and gasped, “The bow! you have Auriel's Bow! I've heard it described in tales, but I could never have imagined its beauty.”

“Gawk later,” Agata said shortly, “We need to put this in our most secure vault and put patrol on it.”

Isran collected himself to reply. “I was thinking of something different. The day hasn't been won while Harkon still walks Tamriel, and we’re only at his mercy if we allow them to know we have it. I say we strike at Castle Volkihar on our own terms with our full might.”

Agata hoped he couldn’t tell she was distress by this idea. “Do we even have the numbers for that?” she questioned.

“We have a hundred strong and ready to ride,” Isran answered, “and patrols in every hold. Our numbers have swelled since the Moth Hunt. We can do it.”

Even still, Agata wasn’t entirely comfortable with this. “Do you think a hundred of our own can take the Castle?” she asked.

Serana chimed in. “The castle isn’t what it used to be,” she explained, distant, “A hundred Dawnguards could take it easily.” Her reaction was probably because she was playing with Bran, himself on the floor, being cute.

At this response, Isran took Agata aside. “What of Serana?” he asked, “Can she be trusted to lift a blade against her own kind? Her own family?”

Agata could only answer truthfully. “No idea. She could be luring us into a trap, for all we know.” While it could be true, and Agata didn’t altogether trust Serana, she didn’t altogether distrust her either. It was just a cover for her own want to avoid this fight.

“If it helps,” Serana interjected, “I've been thinking about this for a long time. It's,” she hesitated, “it's not easy. But I don't think we have much of a choice.” She gathered herself, “No. This has to end here and now.”

Isran was surprised by this, even though Agata could see a hint of incredulity. “I suppose that’s good enough for me,” he remarked, “Let me address the Dawnguard, and then we'll be off. The men deserve to know we've finally gained the upper hand.”

Agata could believe this was happening so fast. She wasn’t ready to fight this battle. She knew that she was running out of time to save Skathi from the fate she chose, but she didn’t expect the battle to come so soon. If there was an opportunity to save her, it was slipping from her grasp. She would need to act soon, if at all, to save Skathi.

Soon, the fort’s lobby was filled with the Dawnguard’s members. Some of these Agata had never seen, some of them she found familiar. They were old, young, tall, short, Man and Elf. This guild attracted many to its ranks and this was proof of it. Agata wasn’t entirely certain they number in just a hundred.

Isran stood on a balcony above them all, overlooking his comrades. “For too long we've allowed these vampires to poison the night and kill our people! Now we finally have the means to strike back! We now have Auriel's Bow. The gods themselves have favored us and we must answer with action!”

The Dawnguard was roused by their leader’s words. Agata was surprise this came from him. He had to send other people to convince others to join his group formed to fight a true threat and that was getting worse. Perhaps since he gained the gift of the gab, or he found the words that resonated with him and shared them with others, who it resonated with as well.

He continued. “The time has come to finally put an end to Harkon and his unholy prophecy! We will march on their lair and destroy those wretched abominations so they can no longer corrupt our world.! This is our fight, and this is our fate. This is the time of the Dawnguard!”

Several of the Dawnguard’s number filled out, ready for battle, while others dispersed. At first, Agata was confused, then Isran approached her.

“It's time we take the fight to their door,” he explained, “I will take the night shift now, you will take the day shift at dawn. Gather your things and rest well, my friend. We meet outside Castle Volkihar.”

That made sense. Isran occasionally talked about how sleep was a weakness, and he did seem to up at most hours, so perhaps he had the resolve to ride now. Also, not all threats were conveniently at day, out in the field or at the fort, so some were ready to right now because this was just when they were awake instead of later.

But that was just of factual interest and occupied Agata’s mind briefly. It was here, at the eve of battle’s beginning, that she had to prepare herself to fail or to try saving Skathi from vampirism, from Molag Bal’s prophecy. She had witnessed both tearing families apart and this was the fate of her sister. She couldn’t figure out how she could face destiny and beat it.

In the barracks, Serana met her. In her hands were a Dawnguard war axe and an Elven sword. They each had a purple aura.

“I’ve enchanted these weapons for you,” she explained, “Both are more effective against the undead. Most you strike should die in the first hit.”

Agata took the weapons. “Thanks,” she muttered.

Hesitantly, Serana added, “She shouldn’t have to suffer.”

Rage and misery filled Agata and she snapped back, “You don’t think I know that!?”

Serana immediately stepped back and raised her hands as a sign of submission, though her stature didn’t wilt. Others in the barracks either grumbled or poked their heads out of their beds to see what was going on. It occurred to Agata that she was causing a stir and most people here had to ride in the morning. She silently accepted these weapons and fell back into bed.

She was uncertain she could find rest. At dawn, there was nothing to do but ride to certain death.

* * *

Skathi look out upon the Pale’s frozen tundra, but not for the snow or wondrous desolation. She was there because she wanted a better look at the battlefield.

Ulfric was due to enter the Pale soon and bring his remade warband to take Dawnstar before moving on to Morthal. Because of that, the bulk of the Imperial Legion in Skyrim has assembled to meet them before they enter the city. Both were ten-thousand strong at least. This was certain to be the final battle for Skyrim’s place in the Empire.

If you were to say which would succeed, you’d have to consider their strengths. In the war before, according to those who fought it, the Stormcloaks’ advantage was their boldness in battle. They had lesser armor and poor weapons, but each fought valiantly. And yet, this was also their weakness, for even the soldiers with no prowess over the Legionnaires had this boldness and died in droves.

The Legion’s strength was in numbers and skill. They had trained longer than the Stormcloaks and had far better armor and weapons. They were difficult to overcome but had a history of not taking surprises well. At Whiterun, they lost because they didn’t expect their own to turn on them. At Falkreath, they expected the warband to take the road, which turned out to fail them, though who knows what happened to the two-thousand men. At Markarth, their victory was only assured by an unknown party, not by adapting to Ulfric’s tactics well. They element of surprise could lose them the war.

But it wasn’t marshal strength that led Skathi to look over the future battlegrounds. It was because she could no longer watch this war without getting involved. She knew this battle would cost both sides many lives and she, as the Dragonborn, had the power to utterly destroy both sides with three words. But it wasn’t easy to choose who.

Or even to believe she should choose. Those who wielded the Shout for mortal affairs had a history of failure. Jurgan Windcaller, founder of the Greybeards, fought a battle against the Dwemer and ancient Dunmer and lost horrifically. It turned him from the path of the warrior, and then became a monk, for believed the Shout should be wielded for the glory of the gods, not Man. However, Skathi saw Jurgan’s battle was foolish, for many today wouldn’t fight a Dwarven automaton, much less an army of them with their allies. Even with the Shout, he couldn’t hope to win that battle.

Even then, to choose was impossible. The Legion and the Stormcloaks were held in about the same regard by Skathi. She was certain both were terrible choices for Skyrim’s leaders, but they were the only options at hand. She couldn’t conjure her own warband up at this late hour, even if she wanted to.

Skathi found the Stormcloaks’ influence on Whiterun wasn’t welcome. They changed a lot, but most of it stayed the same or were worse. There were those sick of the Stormcloak guards harassing them for one reason or another. And Vignar wasn’t a better Jarl than Balgruuf per say, especially when it came to whoever was robbing the Battle-Borns. She didn’t know if it would take time, but she was certain the scars of the battle still lingered and would still be there if the Stormcloaks lost, even if they wouldn’t be so severe.

But that wasn’t to say all the territories under the Legion was good either. Riften always had a reputation for being a crime ridden cesspool and she could see that when she visited, but Imperial rule made it worse. The new Jarl was a crime boss who used her connections to steal her position. Since then, it was a far worse place. Before, the guards were sworn to the Jarl against the lawlessness and the corrupt could be jailed, but the Legionnaires were told to obey Maven Black-briar until the Empire said otherwise and the Empire didn’t say otherwise. There was more crime and injustice, but no one said a word because, at the end of it, was a woman all knew could kill or arrest them and no one could challenge them.

If both these cities were to be examples of rule under the Empire or the Stormcloaks, both were terrible, but what of their capitals, the strongest influence of their power. Well, they were both pretty terrible. Everyone talked about how Jarl Elisif of Solitude just let her steward do anything that didn’t require her as a figurehead. And Ulfric Stormcloak let bigotry rule his city and the bigot harass his citizens. Neither of these were good, but there had to be something that made them better.

And of course, there was the reasons either fought.

The Empire was dying. Should they lose this war, they couldn’t last much longer, but what’s to say Skyrim staying in their rule would improve their situation? They lost most of the provinces to other powers and this maybe the final straw. Even if they won this war, who’s to say the Thalmor wouldn’t be able to still conquer them with the losses they’ve taken? Skathi wasn’t sure this war was worth it.

The Stormcloaks fought because their culture was dying. Talos being outlawed was the final straw in a long series of changes Skyrim had taken over the past few hundred years. The Nords of that time were far different to the Nords of today and the Stormcloaks would desire to restore those days. Yet, it may be too late, for the cities are built, the lodges were abandoned, the Shout was silent. Would fighting this war be enough to restore the old ways? Skathi didn’t think so.

Then there was Rena. Skathi hadn’t know the warmth of at least a friend could have in over a decade. They didn’t often see each other, nor did Skathi think it meant the same to her as it did to her friend, but she still treasured their time together. And with three words, she could very well kill her. Skathi didn’t want to kill her first friend in forever. She wouldn’t risk it. And yet, she didn’t have to, for another three words could save her.

Skathi held that power in her Voice, to destroy and protect. She was told one thing from her father that she remembered scarcely, but their words echoed in her mind and brought her to this place:

“I’d rather choose what happens to me rather than leave it up to someone else. Fuck greater and lesser evils; you need to make a choice, or you’ll be at the will of everyone else but you.”  
She didn’t remember why he said it, but Skathi could hear it clearly even over a decade later. She needed to choose what she thought was right, even if both were wrong. If not, she would live in a world she didn’t choose to live in when she could’ve. And yet, it was no choice at all.

And so, she chose what she believed what was the lesser evil. When the Thalmor march on Cyrodiil again, and if the Imperial Capital falls, she would know that Skyrim wouldn’t suffer the death of a legacy six hundred years old.

* * *

Midnight had passed as Rena arrived in the desolate white waste of the Pale. If there was a place that best described Skyrim in the mind of outsiders, it was this place. An endless wasteland of snow from end to end, beyond the power of the eye to reach. With the moon at its height and unblocked by the clouds, the place was as bright as dawn with the light reflecting off the wastes. It would be perfect for the battle at hand.

Ansgar, who was stood beside her, remarked, “I wanted to live here in the tundra. I wanted to raise my family and live off the land here. I only joined the Legion to protect that, and because I believe the Legion was right. Perhaps I wouldn’t joined if it meant I’d have to fight here.”

“Now’s not the time for regrets, captain,” their commanding officer remarked, “Now is the time for war.”

Legate Rikke was sat upon a horse, overlooking the soon to be battlefield with Rena and the brigade to their back. It was wise military doctrine to survey the terrain before you fight on it, as it may yield an advantage. It also may be useful in spotting your enemy on its march. No advantage was noted by either, at least that Rena could see or Rikke would tell.

Her commanding officer on this march, Legate Rikke was a veteran of the Great War. She had fought under General Jonna, the commander of the Legion Nords during said war, alongside the likes of Galmar and Ulfric, and was a Nord herself. Rena could only imagine what she thought about all this, but wouldn’t ask, nor would her commander tell. What she did know was that she was to lead this brigade into battle.

They had stopped by Morthal to pick up Legate Duilis’s regiment. With that, they had ninety-six hundred Legionnaires ready to battle, with another sixteen hundred on the way. That’s what they awaited: Legate Tituleius’s regiment from Dawnstar. With them, they would make a stand, but how long could they wait? The messenger took a fast horse to Dawnstar, and likely would’ve arrived by now, so, where were they? The regiment or Ulfric.

And then, they were here. Coming from the north was a force that made a thundering march south. Even Rena could see their blue uniforms from here. They had surely taken Dawnstar, and would surely push through to Morthal, to Dragon Bridge and to Solitude should they fail. It wasn’t a question of it they would fight, but who would win. But when Rena saw the fire in Legate Rikke’s eyes, she was certain that even if they fail, they wouldn’t leave their foe at the strength to capture even Dragon Bridge.

“Archers,” Rikke commanded, “give them a volley!”

Rena could hear the commanders give their orders and then came like a lightning strike the sound of over a thousand arrows sent into the air. The arrows were many and cast a silhouette across the sky, but Rena worried only enough to blot out the moon that would keep Ulfric’s warband at bay. But when they struck their foe, Rena could see they took a chunk out of the enemy the way a wolf rips an arm off a sickly hunter. Even if they raise their shields, the Stormcloaks couldn’t deflect the volley.

Another volley was sent, and another volley was sent back. As opposed to the Stormcloak, the Legion shields weren’t made of rotted wood and could stand a few brittle arrows. Not as many fell, but many did fall. Still, you should’ve seen the other guy.

“Tribune Nordson,” Rikke commanded, “charge!”

And out from the formation came Ansgar’s battalion. He had been training them in the art of horseback riding and the two-handed sword, and his resolve would be crucial to break the Stormcloak ranks. A volley of arrows were sent to cripple them, but Rena couldn’t spot them even slowing down. When the riders struck the Stormcloak lines, they couldn’t stand.

It was then two arms stretched from the warband, one to the north and another to the south. Rena had to assume they were some thousand-odd men bent on surrounding Ansgar. She thought them foolish for trying to surround a warrior like him, but it became clear that wasn’t their intent. The south arm was going for the Legion lines, but Rena couldn’t see why the north arm was going northwest. There was nothing there and was in fact the long way to flank them.

That was, until she heard the terror of that word.

“Dragon!”

A great green dragon came and carved a swath of flame into the Legion ranks and took out well over a hundred Legionnaires. That was what the north arm of Stormcloaks were doing; they were sent to take out the dragon. The rear regiment and their impromptu allies volleyed at the beast in an attempt to take it out, but it would prove difficult. What was concerning was how it was focused on taking out Legionnaires over Stormcloaks with single minded determination. Worrisome, to say the least.

But while the north arm was their ally, the south arm shoved a dagger into their back. They came upon the Legion lines with war hammer, axe, and sword, but didn’t easily break their phalanx. For every Legionnaire fallen, three Stormcloaks followed. But eventually, the phalanx did fall when he came onto the battlefield.

It was Ulfric. He Shouted his way into the Legion ranks and led his men through the gap. Every Legionnaire that rose a blade against him fell faster than they could draw their weapon. With an Elven blade in one hand and a shield in the other, he cut down his foes faster than they slew his comrades.

“Captain Donton,” Rikke ordered, “now.”

Rena’s role in the battle was to lead a heavy Legionnaire company through the ranks and kill Ulfric. He could try as he might, but Legion steel isn’t easily broken, even by refined Elven moonstone.

The Legion ranks parted for Rena’s company and she led them through. As they did so, Ulfric and his men were left confused as the way parted until they saw the company going down their path. They couldn’t leave either, as the phalanx reformed to trap them. It was as good a plan as any.

And then he Shouted. Ten heavy Legionnaires were thrown like ragdolls across the battlefield. Rena knew he couldn’t do that again for a spell, so gave the order to charge. They burst through the Stormcloak position and made their way to Ulfric, but he proved a harder opponent than they could stand. Perhaps his arm was just stronger than average soldier, but he tore through the Legionnaires like wheat. The company fair admirable against the foot soldiers, but their leader was untenable.

By then, the battle had come to ahead. The Stormcloaks diverged from Ansgar’s offensive to join their leader. The dragon, from Rena’s position, looked to have taken out a full regiment. The battle was headed south for the Legion, and Rena couldn’t help but resign herself to that. There was little way she could get around that.

“Ulfric!” Ansgar shouted, “Fight me!”

From the Stormcloak’s ranks came the mighty Nord Legionnaire, his sword bursting through shields like logs. When Ulfric saw him, he looked confused and impressed. Rena couldn’t help but think he was the easiest to impress, especially when he turned his back to Ansgar. If Rena had to say the surest way to die, turn your back to Ansgar with his sword drawn.

And he learned that, as no Stormcloak could stop him from crashing his two-handed sword into his torso. His scream outweighed any shout Rena had ever heard from him. His shield arm went limp. Ulfric turned to meet Ansgar with the rage he was given and Shouted, but it didn’t tumble Ansgar like he likely thought it would. Instead, Ansgar gave a Shout in turn that threw Ulfric across the Stormcloak ranks and into the Legion phalanx. Had a sword been turned to him, Ulfric would’ve surely been dead.

If Rena had to say what look Ulfric had in his eyes, it had to be fear. For one time in his life, he was truly afraid of someone as Ansgar stood over him, raising his two-handed sword. Rena’s smirk however was taken away as Ulfric gave another shout, but this didn’t tumble or thrown Ansgar at all. Instead, it threw his sword from his hand into Divines’ knew where.

It was Ansgar’s turn to be shocked, which didn’t last long as Ulfric drove his Elven blade into his gut. Several other Stormcloak descended onto him as the warlord lost interest and took his sword from the warrior’s gut. Rena tried to get to him, but it Ansgar was so surrounded that she was certain where he exactly was. As rage took over and Rena tried charged Ulfric, but he drew his sword and slashed Rena’s face like a butter.

She stood for a moment, just figuring out what had just happened. She took a hand to her face to find the blood spilling out. A dizziness took over and she fell. All became much of a blur.

Rena knew she was dying. She had to. What else was there to this? She could’ve lived her life as a scarred war veteran, but she knew there couldn’t be a chance to leave. If she ran, what would be there but an arrow in her back? Her body grew limp, her mind couldn’t understand what was happening as things went on around her.

But she could see a Stormcloak above her with an axe in hand. Ah, she thought, this little boy has come to put me out of my misery. She closed her eyes as she heard the sound of steel cutting through flesh and a scream.

At first, she couldn’t decide if she was dead or not. Had the throat cutter simply been killed, or did she really scream as it ended? When she opened her eyes, she saw the face of a dead woman.

“I know a place where you’ll be welcome,” remarked Tribune Solana Barsotti.

The ethereal form of her dead commander lifted Rena up. Surely, she had to be dead. As the darkness surrounded her, that was the only thing she could think to explain this. Perhaps it was good that one so respect was bringing her to whatever afterlife awaited her; save the escort of a god, she’d have it no other way.


	24. Chapter 24

It was almost dawn. Skathi arrived at Castle Volkihar, a hand on her blade. She intended to kill the lord of this home.

The gatekeeper didn’t stop her from entering, even though she left nearly a week ago and with the lord’s daughter. His concern was clear on his face, even to Skathi. Neither said a word to the other, for all either knew, Serana was dead.

When Skathi entered the court, it was well after dinner. Only a few still lingered at the banquet table, snacking on who or what was still there. Skathi’s entrance wasn’t at first registered by the diners, but when they did, their faces grew into suspicion’s likeness. They gathered around her, keeping her from going any further.

“Where is her lady Serana?” one of them, a Breton, asked with venom.

No explanation was owed, nor would they believe it, so there was no need to hide it. “The Dawnguard ambushed us,” Skathi explained, “I was knocked unconscious. When I came to, Serana was nowhere to be found.”

“A likely story,” another vampire remarked.

Their doubt was clear. They believed Skathi killed her. It wasn’t true, but one could hardly dispute how incriminating it looked. It was clear she couldn’t convince them otherwise. And they would kill her, for their lord’s will, pleasure, and favor. There was only one flaw.

“What chance do you think you have?” Skathi asked.

They had none.

After spilling the blood of her former piers, she walked over their bodies and went to Harkon’s chambers. He was bowed before his altar, praying perhaps. He wouldn’t know if he would need to add his last rites to his prayer. He didn’t even take note of Skathi before she made herself know by knocking the hilt of her sheathed sword on the wall.

Harkon’s head shot from the altar and looked up Skathi, raising himself up. “You’ve returned. Where is Serana?”

“Maybe you should ask your god,” Skathi snarked, “He might know.”

The glow of the vampire lord’s eyes dimmed like a hand over the fire. “I don’t like what that implies.”

“And just now do you care about your daughter?” Skathi questioned, “Where was that paternal affection when you gave her to Molag Bal? Where was it when you went mad trying to doom all the creatures under the sun? Where was it when the Dawnguard ambushed us?”

That fire in his eyes burned hotter. “You failed to protect her?” he seethed.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Skathi remarked as she drew her blade, “Neither does this. I just want you dead.”

Harkon drew his own blade, an Akiviri weapon by the look of it. “Then I will suffer you no longer.”

Skathi ran down the stairs to the rest of the chamber to meet him, but Harkon turned into a swarm of bats and met her first. When he emerged from the swarm, he was in his Vampire Lord form. With a swipe of his hand, Skathi was thrown off the stairs and onto the stone floor, her sword clattering behind him.

Knowing she couldn’t get close to him now, Skathi drew Zephyr and began releasing arrow after arrow at him, running to keep herself distant from him. She got off a few arrows into his hide, but none of them seemed to affect him. He cast lightning onto her, and it struck with force enough to thrown her against the wall.

It was clear she wouldn’t have the skill or opportunity to easily kill him with mortal weaponry. The way Harkon seemed to fight, she should turn into a Vampire Lord, but she couldn’t. It was beyond out of the question to do that. However, that didn’t mean she was less powerful than him.

As he approached, he heard the dreaded words that would burn him.

**“Yol toor shul!”**

Skathi Shouted fire into his face, which burned his vampire form with the wrath of gods. He turned back his human form and the fire was disbursed. His suffering was the distraction the Dragonborn needed to grab Iokogah and face this castle’s lord in equal combat.

Skathi charged Harkon and he blocked her attack with his own sword. The two fought with similar speeds and strengths, which was surprising. Skathi took his bastard for a fat aristocrat who never raised a sword in his life. Perhaps his vampiric boon gave him this feat. Just think of how fast this fight would’ve gone if he had actually trained.

The one thing that was abundantly clear was that Harkon’s sword wasn’t meant to duel with Skathi’s reforged Nordic blade. It was a finer blade, meant perhaps for other Akiviri weapons, not the Nords’ ancient blades. It was perhaps why their people’s invasion of Tamriel was unsuccessful; they couldn’t duel for more than three minutes before their blades snapped in half.

Skathi took her sword in one hand and drew her dagger, changing her attack on Harkon. She spun quick and struck hard, snapping his sword from his weak grip. She took this helpless state and put her blades into his chest.

Only, he didn’t fall. He was hurt, but still had the strength to take Skathi’s neck in his hands and lift her from the ground. His weakness was setting in, but not fast enough as the life was squeezed from Skathi’s form. The fear of such a death was fast to come upon her, but any who think this would kill her don’t know the meaning of the word courage.

Or

**“Fus ro dah!”**

Skathi held onto her captor’s wrist and Shouted into his face. The force from one direction and another didn’t rip his arm from his body, but it did mangle it to the point her couldn’t possibly use his right hand. And he still and fire in his damned eyes.

He tried to draw Iokogah from his chest, but the blade was longer than his arm. Instead, he reached for the dagger, but Skathi was fast to react to that. She took Harkon sword, charged at him and swung to cut his head clean off his shoulders. It didn’t work and Harkon was laid on the floor was a gash the size of his hand in his neck.

But the fire still burn. Skathi threw the useless Akiviri weapon aside and took her own sword from Harkon’s chest. She brought it down over and over again until the bones broke, and his head was no longer on his body. It was then, and only then, was the fire snuffed out.

Skathi took a moment to breath, but it was soon interrupted.

“How dare you slain one of my slaves in the sight of me!?” shouted a voice from the altar.

“Molag Bal?” Skathi presumed with a tired voice. She’d been worn from the fight and wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

“You!” it shouted, “You are the boy Harkon tried to turn you into one of my daughters! You shall pay for your insolence!”

Skathi cringed at that curse. Harkon tried to make her a Daughter of Coldharbour? Well, checking the calendar, that wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. Even then, it was painful to imply she was a boy. Even if she could be mistaken as one, she was a woman. Perhaps it was that old bit about Bretons and Imperials having “Women” women and Nords have manly women, as stupid as that was. Surely a woman was a woman to irredeemable souls such as these.

“How?” she asked.

“Your sister is my champion, but refuses to obey me,” it explained, chilling its voice, “I will have the both of you fight to the death as your punishments.”

Skathi didn’t even blink. She just stepped up to the altar and said, “What power do you think you have over me?”

And with one fell swing, the altar was smashed in two.

* * *

Agata had ridden from dawn to dusk for two days to reach Icewater Jetty. All knew it was a long way to go, from one side of Skyrim to the other. Some of her riders didn’t believe it would be as arduous or dull as it was, but it was long stretches of time without civilization broken up with the odd beasts attacking them and townsfolk staring at the host armed soldiers with no apparent allegiance riding through their homes; it was going to be two days they weren’t going to look back on with altogether happiness.

Agata arrived at the Dawnguard camp, such as it was. It wasn’t a tent and two people; it was several large tents and somewhere around a hundred men. Not only was there Isran’s men, but also patrols that came to fight with them, judging from their armor. This would be the full might of the Dawnguard against the full might of Clan Volkihar. It was up to the gods as to who would prove victorious.

Isran took note of Agata’s arrival and approached the party. “Good, you’re here,” he remarked, “You look like a ghost. Ataxia?”

“No,” Agata replied as she dismounted.

In truth, it was nothing physical that trouble her. They had passed the remains of the battle in the Pale, a gruesome sight for anyone. However, Agata found the remains of someone he knew. It was Roren, a boy she knew from Falkreath. His brother always talked about joining the Stormcloaks. Roren himself was wearing Imperial armor. A grim reminder of what was to come.

Once Agata’s party was dismounted, Isran said to the camp, “We're done with this when none of them are left standing. Let's go.”

The well over a hundred strong with axes and hammers and crossbows rallied to his orders. They cast off their boats with twenty men in each and began rowing their way to the solitary island which Castle Volkihar stood upon. Some of them clearly weren’t used to being on the water, evidence by the vomit and some boats being rowed the wrong way. Still, they were going to reach the beaches, no matter how long it took.

When they arrived on the shores, Isran drew his hammer and charged the castle. The company followed him to the bridge and their thundering steps were amplified by the stone beneath them. If the vampires didn’t know they were coming before, they did now and Agata didn’t care; they would die just the same and this would be their warning.

The portcullis was down and unattended. That wouldn’t easily stop them. They took crowbars and their strongest men and rose the portcullis with their greatest effort. Once it was raised to a certain point, two men with hammers put theirs at either end. They let the gate rest on them, though it wasn’t a great distance to pass through, maybe five or four feet. Still, enough passed through to find the winch and use it to raise the gate all the way.

The company moved into the castle and found no resistance in the foyer. In fact, when they entered the banquet hall, they found there would be no fight. The bodies of vampires lay on the ground, their entrails splattered, and their heads separated from the rest of them. It was clear judgement had already come to Clan Volkihar and they paid with their blood.

“Who did this?” Isran wondered, relaxing his hammer to his side.

The Dawnguard began checking their wounds. Agata noticed a lot of wounds seemed excessive. A stab wound in the gut and decapitation, for example. It was like their attacker couldn’t wait for them to succumb to their wounds and finished them off themselves. Then again, with vampire, who knows when they’d die.

This thought was interrupted by a sound. It was a door opening. The entire company shot from their investigation and readied their weapons. Agata and a few other Dawnguard released their crossbow bolts but hit nothing more than the door and the wall. There was someone still alive in Castle Volkihar.

“Kyne’s grace, you animals!” shouted a familiar voice, “I’m on your side!”

Agata dropped her crossbow. “Skathi?”

The door opened all the way and from it came Skathi herself. She was wearing unfamiliar black leather and steel pauldrons, but it was her. But something that was noteworthy, not for its existence but for its absence, was her eyes. Her eyes weren’t a glowing fire anymore, but the brown eyes she knew as her sister’s.

Agata ran apart from the Dawnguard and to her sister’s arms. She embraced her sister with all her might and her sister hugged back. She was free from Molag Bal’s curse. It was within their power to live as they wish again, without this conflict getting in the way.

“How is this possible?” Agata asked, breaking away.

“A conjurer in Morthal,” Skathi explained, “he has the power to cure vampirism. He helped me.”

Agata turned to Isran, who was observing this incredulously. “There is such a mage in Morthal,” he added dryly.

Agata turned back to Skathi. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Well,” her sister explained, “I came here to kill Harkon. It worked, I did it, but then everyone in the castle knew what I did and started trying to kill me.”

Serana looked conflicted with what Skathi was saying. Agata couldn’t blame her. All these things that have impacted her life, vampirism, and her father, Skathi had done away with and all Serana could do was watch. Her father, such as he was, was dead and she wasn’t in the room where and when it happened. And she cured her vampirism, which Serana had dealt with for most of her life. It would be more concerning if she didn’t look conflicted.

“It's over,” Isran remarked to Serana, “He's dead, and the prophecy dies with him. I,” he chose his words carefully, “I suppose this is difficult for you.”

“I think my father really died a long time ago,” Serana sighed, “This was just the end of something else. She did what needed to be done. Nothing more.”

“Still,” Isran replied, struggling with the words, “You have my thanks.”

Serana seemed to note it but didn’t stop looking uncomfortable. She turned to Skathi and asked, “Why did you do that?”

Skathi’s subtle pride was specked with shame. “When I heard what he did with you, I knew I was going to kill him,” she explained, “When you went missing, I decided not to pursue Auriel’s Bow and just kill Harkon.” She seemed short when she asked, “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

“It’s alright,” Serana nodded, “I just didn’t expect that.”

Before another word could be spoken, a thundering quake shook the castle. The Dawnguard was on alert again. From deathly portals came creatures Agata had only heard in stories her parents or old elves would tell her. By their appearance, of horns, red and black skin in similarly colored armor, they were Dremora. And with them were beasts that could only be other Daedra.

From nowhere and everywhere came Molag Bal’s voice. “The two of you Wolf-Runners will now pay for your insolence! Destroy and altar, slay my servants and defy my will, will you? Well, prepare to meet me in Coldharbour.”

Skathi was about to draw her sword when Agata gave her Auriel’s Bow. “If anything will hurt them, it’s this,” she explained, “And if anyone should wield it, it’s you.”

Skathi nodded and began releasing arrows into the fiends upon them. The rest of the Dawnguard followed this example and began slaying Daedra. Hammers crushed the heads of Dremora, axes cut the arms off creatures with snakes tails where should be legs, and cross bows dispersed the Atronachs so vile. It was glorious.

The Dawnguard was in glorious combat with Daedra. Agata reflected a moment on the irony of it. Isran reformed the guild because the Vigilants of Stendarr weren’t taking the vampire threat seriously. Now, Isran was fighting the Daedra they were so wary of. What’s more, he seemed to enjoy it, crushing skulls with a smirk on his face. Perhaps he too understood the irony.

When the numbers of the Daedra waned, more emerged from the portals and even more horrific than before. Large beasts with the bodies of trolls and the heads of dragons, people who looked as though their souls had left them centuries ago, and more of the Daedra from before. Molag Bal wouldn’t make this easy to walk away from, that was certain.

With this wave, the beasts of Molag Bal met the beasts of the Dawnguard. The armored trolls had finally entered the castle began fighting their dragon-headed counterparts. Huskies tore the faces of Dremora. And the fiercest of the Dawnguard’s numbers found all of them easy prey. One shouldn’t expect to meet such vicious resistance from any other mortal, but Agata wasn’t expecting anything less than that from her shield-siblings.

But even then, their resistance was failing them. Nearly have their force had fallen and more Daedra were arriving. Most had run out of crossbow bolts and Skathi ran out of arrows. Serana gave her the Sunhallowed arrows that they were given with Auriel’s bow, but there weren’t many to spare. This battle would surely be over soon, and the hordes of Molag Bal weren’t easily dissuaded.

Agata’s only hope was that the Divines themselves would see this and come down to save them, but it was farfetched at this moment. All the Dawnguard could do was fight on, but they were becoming worn. Half had traveled two days to reach this castle and it showed. Isran’s defiant smirk had faded somewhere in the second wave. If they kept fighting on and on, there would be no Dawnguard and no defense against the vampires of this world.

Agata remembered why this was happening. She wished to defy Molag Bal’s demand she be his champion. She still wouldn’t submit to the King of Rape’s request, as foolish as that was. No, she wouldn’t submit to him, only give him her death.

Agata took her sword from her hilt and declared to Molag Bal, “You will never have my soul, Daedra!” and stabbed herself in the chest.

She could feel the world around her look upon in shock. Perhaps they didn’t believe what she was doing. One of the creatures, probably a scamp, saw this and ran over to attack her, but a dagger cut its try short. The dagger belong to Serana, who looked upon her and nodded. They both knew what she was doing, why she was doing it, but Serana didn’t stop her. Funny.

As the life left Agata, she could feel someone behind her. Two arms wrapped around in an embrace. They were clad in black leather and steel.

“Skathi?” Agata gasped.

“If you’re dying to stop this,” her sister shuddered, “I’m dying too.”

“No,” Agata said as she tried to pull the sword out, “You don’t need to; it’s just me they want.”

“No, Agata,” Skathi denied, “I’ve done worse than you. He wants me dead too. And besides,” she gasped, like she was finding the strength to say it, “I’ve lived in a world without too long. I won’t live in it any longer.”

The sisters fell to the ground, no longer having the strength to stand. Agata watched, the life leaving her, as the Daedra went back into their portals as the Dawnguard and Serana surrounded them. It was working. The Dawnguard would live to fight another day, the vampire threat was ending. This would all be over soon and the last of the Wolf-Runners would arrive in Sovngarde soon enough.

Agata looked back. She remembered her first memory, dancing around with her mother at the Harvest’s End festival as her father watched, a warm smile on his face. She remembered her sister’s birth, how she never liked the name they gave her. She remembered how they made up names that first game of dress-up. She remembered Roren Alrisorsson teasing his brother for wanting to join the Stormcloaks. She remembered how the Jarl’s man tried to take her and it began the end of her family. She remembered those twelve years she did whatever she could to survive.

And she remembered being reunited with her sister after all that time. In the end, she was going to Sovngarde, her sister in hand. She couldn’t ask for a better death than this as the blackness finally took her.


	25. Epilogue

The Wolf-Runner sisters died saving the Dawnguard. The Dawnguard would go on to supplant the Vigilant of Stendarr in Skyrim, and even accomplish more than them. While they started out as vampire slayers, they expanded to include many a beast of Daedric origin but wouldn’t simply persecute Daedra worshippers. They did however require that these groups not practice necromancy or worship three of the Four Corners of the House of Troubles, Malacath excluded due to his connection with the Orsimer.

The Civil War ended with a Stormcloak victory. With little resistance, Ulfric took Solitude and Jarl Elisif surrendered to his superior might. The Empire’s Legion was left as nothing except cells of survivors scattered throughout the holds. The Jarls, with Ulfric’s loyalists in state and soldier, would have little choice but Ulfric as their High King, the Moot simply a formality.

Ravani was thrown into Cidhna Mine under five accounts of murder, one account of assault, and connections to the Forsworn. Her sentence was her entire life. No citizen saw her leave that mine. After a month, Karliah gave up on her and chose to find other ways to read Gallus’s journal. She found none.

Jeanne was last seen drowning in the waters of Lake Honrich, same as Mjoll the Lioness. Mjoll’s planning saved many lives from the supposed Thieves Guild attack. In the wake of the attack, Jarl Laila Law-Giver attempted to save Maven Black-Briar imprisoned for her criminal connections, but the most she could do was audit her and liquidate her assets when she failed the audit. The people became emboldened and began attacking any Thieves’ Guild member that showed their face in public, the guards not stopping them. The guild hid within the cistern and no one ever saw them emerge.

Rena’s body was missing from the remnants of the Battle of the Pale. Several bodies were missing, as well as the belongings of several corpses. It’s speculated many of the missing were actually survivors that banded together into the resistance cells, but that’s mere conjecture. Rena’s sword was found and returned to her mother in Cyrodiil.

The Dark Brotherhood was never seen again. Rumor has it though that they merely set up shop in Dawnstar rather than merely disappear. People have been seen coming and going from the black door outside of town and have stayed in the inn without saying what they’re there for. And there has been a spike in unexplained death since the death of the Emperor. People have blamed the new regime change for it.

Amaund Motierre was found dead in the Bannered Mare. He couldn’t cross the border to Cyrodiil, so he stayed at the inn until an opportunity arose. He was scruffy and bearded, not how he would prefer, but he lacked his preferred essentials in Skyrim. He was found with no coin in his purse and an arrow in his chest. No one knows who did it.

The death of Titus Mede II shook the Empire to the core. The people demanded the Elder Council act, but they were in too much chaos in the wake of it. With everyone vying for the Emperor, from the remaining Medes, to the Vicis, to members of the council and other families, they didn’t agree on anything. It was all politics, not people. Incidentally, the southmost city of Leyawiin and its county have lost all contact with the outside world. No citizen of the Empire knows why.

Eoni’s fate, however, is about to become quite clear.

* * *

Eoni found this was a long time coming. Ever since she joined the Stormcloaks, she knew some day she would be besieging Solitude. She didn’t expect it to be so soon, but she knew it wasn’t going to be pretty. This was one of the most well defended cities in Skyrim; it was far from an easy feat to breach the walls.

Ulfric knew that as well. For a week, they had been sieging the city. No arrows, no catapults, nothing but a blockade to ensure there was no food going into the city. In winter, they had a higher likelihood of resisting that, as they likely had food stores to last them ‘till First Seed. But if got used to seeing ten thousand soldiers on their doorstep, they would get sloppy. Ulfric would make a fantastic Thalmor with tricks like that.

And then the order came: “Breach the gate!”

Eoni watched as the Stormcloaks brought a battering ram up the causeway, the Solitude archers finally volleying with fire arrows. Fools didn’t realize the heat was actually encouraging the barely clothed Nords in this chill. They returned the favor with flaming artillery and their own volley of seven thousand burning arrows that replaced the stars in the sky.

The gate was broken within a quarter of an hour. When Eoni stepped in, she saw the chaos this city was engulfed in. Buildings were set ablaze with no regard for civilian or soldier. Speaking of which, many already laid dead where they once stood, whether beggars refused a roof over their heads, peasants that didn’t catch the fire until too late, soldiers that were preparing to meet the warband head on, or children that saw the pretty colors. Eoni didn’t spare them much thought. Thoughts don’t go good places.

Eoni, with spell and blade, cut through the waves of Legionnaires and hold guards that still lived. They were easy. After the battle in the Pale, anything was easier. Eoni reckoned that most of the soldiers that still lived were forged by that battle’s raging flames. And if they wouldn’t be forged, they were merely scalding metal that would cool eventually. She could tell some had melted but were hiding that. What Nord wouldn’t want to slay their king’s enemies?

The objective was Castle Dour. With Legate Rikke dead, General Tullius was the last resistance to the throne Ulfric had. If he lived after this battle, he would merely bring another Legion to this battle, even if the Elder Council would be hesitant to do it. Without him, Ulfric would have free reign over Skyrim, and he would be the only sole authority of this province.

What was funny is that Ulfric was initially hesitant to attack Solitude. With the Emperor visiting, he would’ve waited until the old man set sail back to where he came. No one wants to be responsible for the death of such an important figurehead as he. He even gave his condolences when he heard of the Emperor’s death.

But this wasn’t the time for such sentiment. Eoni lead her men into Castle Dour’s breach and found that they were ill prepared for the Stormcloaks. It seemed Dour’s purpose became less of a true castle and more another palace in recent time. The portcullis was uninstalled, for Mara’s sake! Eoni found it easy to breach their miniscule defenses after that.

And so, Stormcloaks stood in the courtyard. Ulfric, Galmar and Eoni looked at each other and knew what they must do. They went into the castle’s chambers with the goal of killing General Tullius. He wouldn’t be a prisoner, he wouldn’t be a convict, he was just going to die. And they wouldn’t accept a surrender. That suited Eoni simply fine.

“Secure the door,” Ulfric ordered as they stepped in.

“Already done,” Galmar responded, stand at the door.

By their tenth stepped, the swords of General Tullius and another officer were on them. Eoni decide to let Ulfric deal with the military governor; it only seemed appropriate. Eoni fought this officer like she did all those centurions, lieutenants, tribunes and whatever else she encountered: with the intent to kill them quickly. Can’t stay around for pleasure; have to get back to battle.

However, this officer wouldn’t just die. He was fast enough and strong enough to swat the blade from Eoni’s hand and tried move in further. The elf decided dying was not a viable option for her and blocked his sword and a summoned sword of her magics. This one wasn’t lost so easy and was enough of a distraction for her to electrocute him for his troubles. With that, Eoni went in for the kill.

Her opponent slain, Eoni turned to see Ulfric stood over his. Tullius wasn’t quite dead yet, just whimpering a whiny like a mulling welp. This was the man Elisif’s court trusted more than Elisif. How pitiful of him to be taken down by a few wounds. His held onto his gut like it wound fall out without his hand, which it probably would.

“Enough,” Tullius whimpered, enough.”

“This is it for you,” Ulfric painted, having definitely worked up a sweat from the fight, “Any last words before I send you to Oblivion?"

“You realize this is exactly what they wanted,” Tullius sighed.

Now, who told him that?

“What who wanted?” Eoni questioned. Depending on his answer there may be another reason to kill him.

“The Thalmor,” Tullius continued, “They stirred up trouble here. Forced us to divert needed resources and throw away good soldiers quelling this rebellion.”

“It's a little more than a rebellion, don't you think?” Ulfric snarked, which earned a chuckle Eoni. Only Ulfric wasn’t smiling. Maybe he knew more than he should.

“We aren't the bad guys you know,” Tullius stated.

“Maybe not,” Ulfric conceded, “but you certainly aren't the good guys.” What did Men have with their concept of morality? They always had to be right, not better. They should probably want to change that.

“Perhaps you're right,” Tullius in turn conceded, “But then what does that make you?”

“You just said it yourself."

“It makes us right,” Eoni stated, finishing Ulfric’s thought for him. He didn’t appreciate that.

“And if I surrender?”

“The Empire I remember never surrendered,” Ulfric remarked, “That Empire is dead. And so are you.”

“So be it.”

This was taking too long. “Just kill him and let's be done with it already,” Eoni demanded.

“Come, Eoni,” Ulfric replied, Where's your sense of the dramatic moment?”

“By the gods!” Eoni fumed, “If it's a good ending to some damn story you're after, perhaps I should be the one to do it."

“Good point,” Ulfric smirked.

He handed Eoni he Elven-make sword and stepped back. Eoni was surprised as to his generosity. Perhaps he saw a half-Elf, half-Nord who deserved to prove finally prove herself a true daughter of Skyrim. To prove her comrades that she was as much a Nord in spirit as they were a Nord in blood. Perhaps he saw a true Stormcloak.

But Eoni knew he was blind.

She crouched next to Tullius to whisper into his ear. “You fought well, but you made a mistake. You don’t own Skyrim. Skyrim belongs to the Nords.

And Tamriel belongs to the Thalmor.”

And before he could say a word, Eoni raised back to full height and cut his head from his body. It rolled to the table that held the map of Skyrim. Seemed poetic nonsense to her, but the bards would make mention of it. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be in their songs, though; she was hardly one that would demand such an insult to her character as implying she fought for Skyrim, even if she did where a uniform and fought a war for it.

“Stormblade,” Ulfric spoke with pride, “I want you to have my sword, a token of my appreciation. Now then. The men will expect a speech. Will you stand by my side? I wish to honor you, the truest of Stormcloaks.”

Eoni immediately saw that as a bad thing. “Maybe you should leave me out of your speech,” she requested.

“Oh, why is that?” Ulfric inquired.

“My reasons are my own,” Eoni stated. He didn’t need to know why. He especially didn’t need to know why.

“A woman's heart is his own burden to bear,” Ulfric nodded, “so I will honor your request, though it casts a bit of gloom on an otherwise glorious day. Come, at the very least walk with me.”

Eoni followed Ulfric out the castle, barely containing her smirk. In her hand was the blade of an Elf that Ulfric slew in the Great War, she was certain of it. He likely kept it as a trophy of the old times, and a reminder of his enemy all these years. But now, it was in the hand of his enemy.

All hail the Thalmor, saviors of the Summerset Isles and Tamriel.


End file.
